Lineage
by Dex1
Summary: No one can ever really escape his fate, a sad fact it takes Sam and Dean twenty years to fully accept.  Sequel to Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Author's Note: ** Here it is, the humorous, angsty, awful, wonderful sequel to _Future's So Bright_. If you haven't read that, I highly advise you to...that said, all you really need to know is that twenty years from now both Sam and Dean are married with children, and Sam's daughter, who inherited his visions, recently died.

Yeah, maybe you do need to read the first story.

* * *

"Come on, let's go!" she enthuses, hopping in the room, dropping to the bed like a five-year-old on crack.

Sarah almost smiles despite herself, this sad little routine becoming more and more the bright spot of her days. "No," she sighs simply, same response as always.

Ava glares at her mischievously, _no_ clearly not being an acceptable reply. "We're going to the spa," she says evenly, only the final word stressed, drawn out into a mysterious whisper. "I've already made the appointment, and you can't say no because they'll charge me anyway, even if we cancel, which we won't," she tosses with authority while aimlessly perusing the unopened books on the nightstand – guides for grieving, who would want to read that? "Dean's already _not talking_ to me over a minor $300 purchase the other day."

Sarah rolls over and peeks through slitted eyes, newfound light in the room – _who ripped open the curtains?_ – making her squint. "Three hundred dollars?" she inquires with a lilt.

Ava waves her hand dismissively. "Ballet," being all she says, which, really, is all she needs to say for Sarah to understand. She went a little overboard with the leotards and tutus and leg warmers and slippers. But how could she not, Sammy looking so darn cute pirouetting through the living room, kitchen, backyard?

She smiles at the image of her young demanding niece, throws her arm across her face and says, "And he's not talking to you? That's rich." The implication of which is simple, _he's_ the one who spoiled that kid into her current _rotten_ state, so who's he to judge?

"Yeah, well, I guess he doesn't realize that the whole no talking thing is actually a much needed break. I mean, you have no idea how rare it is for that man to just _shut up_."

"I have some idea," she grumbles, working to bury herself back beneath the covers.

"Ha," Ava exclaims, grasping the quilt and sheets and ripping them from the bed – an oft practiced routine with two teenage boys at home. "He won't even stop during sex," she says, rambling on while tossing the bedclothes in a corner, turning to rifle through drawers for something cute and clean. "I mean, it's always, _come for me baby, you know you want it._ Or, _open wide, let daddy in_."

"Eww," she whines, rolling over on the bare mattress.

"Don't get me wrong, sometimes it's nice. Sometimes," she says almost dreamily, crooked grin on her face, "it's _naughty_."

"Okay," Sarah says, pulling herself up, letting her legs drop over the side of the bed. "Okay. I'm up. Just…stop."

She'd been out of the house. It's not as though she'd spent the last month and a half in total seclusion. How could she? There was still a gallery to run – though admittedly Dana had it under control, issuing out random updates whenever Sarah called to check in. And there was also a house, a family, to look after – never mind the fact that Rachel was now gone too, hundreds of miles away, and her husband might as well be.

Still, she'd been up, out of bed. Last week John took her grocery shopping. The week before, she went to the post office to mail Rachel some extra linens. The week before that, well, okay, the week before that she might have actually spent everyday in her room.

But so what, where was the crime in sulking just a bit longer? Didn't she have every reason to not want to get out of bed? After all, it had only been six weeks. Six weeks since burying her daughter. And that in no way compared to the sixteen years of misery she concluded was warranted to even out her sixteen years of joy.

So she might appease them every so often, Ava's too excited plans for fun girl's day out.

Or John's sad and pleading smile, so like his father's, as he'd ask if she'd go for a walk with him.

Or Michael's _I finally got it!_ expression, lighting up his features every time he came to her with a new and _fun_ idea.

Or Dean, sitting still and quiet and smaller than she could ever remember him being, issuing out a tired, "Come on, Sarah," in desperate tones.

But one day, one hour, outside these walls, outside this bed, would never cure her of her malaise. Nothing would. Nothing _will_. Of that's she's already convinced.

"I don't really understand the whole seaweed thing," Ava wonders aloud, contemplating the merits of all the seemingly bizarre spa treatments out there. "I mean, the mud, I get. Mud's fun. Hell, I think Michael spent half his childhood in mud."

"And now he has beautiful skin," Sarah offers as they both sit for their pedicures.

"Oh," she exclaims, turning excitedly to her sister-in-law, "speaking of Michael, you'll love this." She takes on a sort of conspiratorial whisper as she rambles, "He has this new girlfriend, Cynthia. Or Francine…I don't know, something like that. And she's this sweet little blond thing, his age. Very polite, kind of quiet, _great _with Samantha. So, perfect, right?"

Ava stops just long enough for Sarah to raise her brows, but not long enough to permit her to speak, the mere fact that she's paying attention being enough incentive for her to go on.

"Yeah, well, turns out he's only dating her – and I use that term loosely, because no matter how much he and Dean tag team me with their whole fifteen's _so_ not fair argument – because it's completely fair! The girls never had a problem with it. Well, at least Rachel didn't. And Maya," she pauses briefly, stunned at how easily her name passes over her lips, how casually.

Sarah doesn't so much as avert her gaze, despite Ava's eyes sullenly falling to the floor. "You can say her name," she says almost as a chide. Then, softly, thoughtfully, "I always loved her name."

But Ava doesn't say a word, only glances back up, eyes shimmering with regret.

Sarah turns in her seat, smile taking over her face. "You know why I named her that? And_ I_ did name her, Sam had picked…God, what was it? Becky, as in Becky Thatcher."

"His favorite book," she replies, words barely discernable.

Sarah nods. "I said no."

Ava sits further upright, tries to regain that casual, unbattered demeanor. "So," she starts slowly, "why Maya?" this time the name rolling from her tongue with a lyrical familiarity.

Her eyes seem to sparkle as she speaks, a trait anyone who's ever known Sarah would describe as her most unique quality, the truth behind the phrase, _A smile that lights up the room._ A trait hardly anyone has seen in over a month. "When I was college we studied ancient Mayan art. Beautiful, exotic, almost epic. And they didn't have the tools they needed, the tools _we_ would have needed…to carve the hieroglyphs and inlay jade. I don't know…it just, made me feel…small. But in a good way. Insignificant, but part of this…big, beautiful monster of a world." She stops and locks eyes with Ava, says simply, "That's how she made me feel, first time I saw her."

A moment passes before either woman speaks, both lost in a far off memory, a fleeting image from the past. "Dean thinks we named Michael after the archangel…you know, strong and powerful and on the side of God. But really…" she trails off shortly, "Michael J. Fox."

Sarah's face goes from somber to hysterics in the blink of an eye, unrelenting laughter like she hasn't felt in weeks erupting from somewhere deep inside. "Michael J. Fox?" she ekes out.

"I grew up on Family Ties reruns," she says in mock defense. "Besides, he's _foxy_."

The giggles continue, fairly incoherently for a moment or two, before drifting off into nothing, leadening the air with an uncomfortable silence. "I just like to hear her name," Sarah says softly, seemingly tired voice breaking in. "No one says her name anymore." She turns to Ava, simultaneously taking a deep breath, preparing to change the subject, eager to keep herself from the tears she can feel rising in the back of her throat. "So why's Michael dating Francine?"

And never one to pass up a much longed for change of topic, Ava dives right in with, "I think it's Celine." Smiles and light laughter gingerly return to the two as she goes on. "And he's dating her because he's really got a thing for her sister. Her _older_ sister."

"That's terrible."

"That's what I said. But Dean…"

"Patted him on the back and said, _that's my boy_?" she asks coyly.

Ava seems to mull the question over for a moment before saying, "Not exactly. But there was definitely this big proud, dopey grin on his face when he said…what was it? _Dangerous game._"

Sarah quirks a brow. "Almost as though he knows from experience."

And laughing beside her, Ava concurs, "Almost."

She brings her home for dinner, forces her to be around the loud obnoxious family she's been trying so hard to avoid. And she seems to enjoy it, for the first hour at least, sitting in the kitchen with Ava, helping chop vegetables while listening to John and Michael argue in the next room.

The house is hectic, in a way Sarah's never was, even when the boys and Samantha came over. Because for her, they've always been good kids, not angels, hey, they're Dean's after all, but good kids. Here, it seems they have to step over the line – say by calling one's brother a man-whoring thief, at the top of his lungs – before being reminded there's a line at all – like by being informed by one's father, also at the top of his lungs, that everyone needs to _calm down, grow up, and shut it!_

After dinner they have s'mores, Samantha's new favorite food ever since a girl scout camping trip last month, and she shows Aunt Sarah just how to make them, burning the marshmallow ever so slightly over the fireplace flame. Dean lurks in the background, concern flooding his face as he wonders if eating marshmallows cooked over artificial logs will have any long-term health effects.

By eight Michael's gone, over to Celeste's – _Celeste – _and John's eyes are glued to his computer screen upstairs. So Ava offers to take her home, even though she'd hoped that Dean would, the two barely having spoken two words all through dinner, and only a few more than that throughout the last several weeks. But Sarah had a full day already, no need to push it.

So she drives her back, doesn't even think twice about putting the car in park and following her in, this house being nothing if not a second home. Sarah thanks her politely at the door, smiles bashfully as thought this were some sort of childishly romantic good night moment, and heads up the stairs to bed.

Ava calls after her, "We're doing this every week from now on. I don't care what it costs," and stops herself from backing out the door only when she hears a too familiar scoff come from the kitchen. "What was that?" she inquires slyly, peeking her head around the corner.

Sam doesn't so much as look up from his reading when he says, "Not your money you're spending."

She enters the kitchen, sits down across from him at the table, eyes dancing over the loads of files and papers in front of him. "Neither are you. It's Dean's treat," she says with a smile.

"Does he know that?"

She ignores the question, offering up a scoff of her own before stating the obvious, "You missed dinner."

He flaps his hand to indicate the paperwork before him. "Had work."

She nods unconvinced. Then, furrowing her brow in confusion, "Why aren't you doing this in your office?"

He mutters distractedly, offers up a mere, "Dunno," as his fingers flip furiously through the file in his lap.

But she knows him better than that, even without having been around him so much for the past twenty years, even without having shared her children with him, and him sharing his with her. Even without having seen his confident posture in the courtroom or when on the arm of his wife, this now slumped and drawn form before her perfectly juxtaposing _that_ Sam, she can tell that he's lying.

"I think Sarah had a good time today," she says lightly, as though simply making conversation. "Really."

And he plays along as far as he's willing, replying with, "Good."

"I'm gonna try to get her to go to the gallery on Thursday. I know she misses the place, so it shouldn't be too hard."

"Okay," he says absently.

She moves her hand across the table towards his, grabs a hold lightly of his wrist as he reaches for another stack of papers. When he glances up at her, finally meeting her eyes, she can almost _hear_ her heart crack and break. "You look like shit," she says with such astonished sincerity that he almost laughs in response.

"Uh, thanks," he mutters, twisting out of her grip. "That's nice of you to say."

"Why don't you go upstairs, go to bed?" she suggests, a hint of motherly demand to her voice.

"It's eight o'clock," he tells her simply.

"Well, you don't have to go to _sleep_," she intones, voice ripe with innuendo.

But his face goes stern when he says, slow and deep, "Ava, stop."

And maybe she'd let it go, see that it's not her business, she's overstepping her bounds. Maybe she'd back off gracefully, leave this sad little couple alone to their too private grief. Maybe, if she were anyone else.

"You know," she starts, rising from her seat, a clear sign that she's had enough – enough of his constant evasiveness, consistent push for distance, "You're acting like you've got the corner market on grief, Sam." Her eyes go wide with frustration as she begins to pace. "It isn't fair."

He glares at her, fierce stare from slitted eyes, as he cocks his head in her direction, feigns confusion, "I'm sorry," he bites out, "What's not fair?"

But she's not intimidated. No doubt about it, Sam Winchester can be one scary son of a bitch when he tries, and she knows that better than anyone, having seen a part of him few others have. But _that_ was the same part that lies within her as well, and as wrong as it might be to gather confidence from a place of evil, she can't help but do so in standing up to him.

"Don't do that," she tells him, voice firm, order clear. In very un-Ava fashion, she speaks deeply and deliberately, words curling with anger and sorrow. "You act like you're the only one who lost her. Like the rest of us don't matter, our feelings don't matter."

He scoffs at her before guiltily averting his eyes. "That's not true."

"Sam," she tries, tone softening as she crosses the room towards him. "Your wife is upstairs right now, all alone. This whole day, out with me, at home with my family, _our_ family, the whole time she was still completely _alone_."

"Ava," he interjects with a wag of his head.

"She needs you Sam. And you need her. Why is that so hard for you to see?"

"Me?" he shoots bitterly. "Why is that so hard for _me_ to see?" He rises from his seat, turns to face the wall instead of her when he begins, "She won't talk to me. She won't _look_ at me." His head drops sullenly. "She doesn't _see_ me."

And Ava can't help but wonder, let her mind wander, about what all those horrible statistics mean, about marriages failing following the loss of a child. Because she'd thought a lot about what that would be like, over the last month and a half, couldn't help but wonder what would happen to her life if one of her kids was suddenly no longer in it.

She knew she'd die, that much was obvious. But if by some miracle she could find the strength to go on, the idea that she and Dean would _not_ lean on each other for support, the image of them being torn apart, distance taking the place of their child in their family dynamic, seemed utterly ludicrous.

But it seemed insane to think that would ever happen to Sam and Sarah either. From the moment she met Sarah, she knew how much Sam loved her. And not just loved but…adored, everything about her. It was in his eyes, that light that was so rare, a happy glowing quality she could only see when he was with her. Dean, never one for public speaking, had made a heartfelt toast at their wedding, _thanking_ Sarah for bringing his brother to life, giving him a life, making him who he is.

After twenty years, Sam without Sarah would simply not be _Sam_.

"Have you talked to her?" she asks gently.

He turns, sad, swollen eyes boring into her. "And say what? I'm sorry our daughter's dead? I'm sorry I killed her?"

"Sam," she breathes, hint of bitter disappointment to her words. Everyone knew he blamed himself. Hell, it seemed as though the entire family had been taking turns at blaming themselves. But, "You didn't kill her."

"Might as well have."

"Honey," she tries, soothingly, though the words come out more as a reproach, "You didn't have any more control over having these abilities than she did, than I did."

"I know," he admits deeply. "But I could have helped her more. Maybe if I wasn't so…angry at the fact that she had them…I could have done more."

"So could I," she says with a straight face, despite the gravity of her admission, that if Sam was to blame for Maya's death, if he was in anyway complicit, then she was just as much so.

He doesn't deny her apparent regret any more than he does his own, doesn't tell her it's okay, she's not to blame, no one is. He simply looks away, says in a little boy's voice, lost and airy, "I miss her. I miss her so much."

And Ava nods, because it's all she can do, the words, "We all do," falling from her lips despite herself.

But he shakes his head, _no_. "Sarah," he corrects. "I miss Sarah."

"Then go to her," she nearly exclaims. "Go talk to her, _be_ with her," trailing on as she nears him once more.

"I can't," he says, turning on her, plastering himself up against the wall in an attempt to get further from her, as though her encouragement were some sort of threat he had to flee. "I _can't_."

"Why not?" she asks, almost fed up. It all seemed so simple in her head. "You live together. You love together. You had these kids together. _Grieve_ together."

"I don't want to," he says simply, petulant lilt to his voice.

And it takes her a moment to respond, so taken back by the idea that he wouldn't want to share his pain, ease his burden. Until she realizes that he doesn't feel his burden should be eased, the weight of it breaking his shoulders even now. But still she asks, wanting to hear him say it, admit to it in the hopes that he'd see just how ridiculous it is, "Why not?"

But he doesn't answer, only drops his head once more, gaze falling to the hardwood.

Ava moves closer, almost whispers next to him, "She was always your girl, Sam," at first not even realizing which of his girls she's speaking of. Not until, "Always just like you," flows out in a slow, soft tone.

He nods, says, without looking up, "It isn't fair."

And she knows just what he means. It isn't fair. Any of it. "Maya never blamed you," she says, relieved to hear her name echo beautifully, not bitterly, in her own ears.

His tone is desperate, demanding, when he asks, glaring at her from beneath hooded eyes, "How do you know?"

"I know," she declares with unwavering faith.

Again, he nods. Again, his eyes drop to the floor, shoulders slump enough to lower his frame a few inches, shorten him enough that she can easily slide into him, her much smaller body fitting into the curve of his as he continues to lean against the wall.

At first she simply stands there, leans into him a bit, a comforting presence, a hug without the awkward intimacy. But he is so quiet and so slumped and so…broken that she can't help but move closer, always being of the mind that physical comfort speaks louder and more directly than any words could. She's a hugger, a kisser, still insisting on holding her children tight to this day, despite two of them being nearly men, as tall as or taller than her. So it feels natural to lay her head on Sam's shoulder, melt into the crook of his neck until his head tilts towards hers.

He throws a heavy arm around her hips and falls further into her, allowing his weight to be at least partially supported by her. And she can feel his tears on her own face, hot and eerily familiar, as they roll and fall from his. She shifts, pulling her head up and away so as to look into his eyes, lets her hand drift up to his cheek to wipe away the tears.

"Sarah doesn't blame you either," she says so softly she almost wonders if she said it at all, especially when he offers no response.

Her hand stays, small and steady, on his face, and he leans into it, closing his eyes and pressing out more tears for her cool flesh to absorb. His head falls lower, closer to hers, his breath hot and heavy in her ear as he murmurs, "You don't know that."

And it's true, she doesn't. Because every time she brings up Sam in their conversations, Sarah shuts down, so really, she has no idea how or what she feels. And that mere fact, more importantly, the sad fact that Sam _knows_ it, draws her even closer, pressing her face into his as though, if only she could somehow _melt_ into him, she could give him some strength, allow him to steal away some comfort.

It feels like an eternity, the two them standing there, leaning on one another, breaths complimenting though never matching, skin growing hot where pressed together. It seems like an eternity of quiet nonexistence, where she is not Ava, nor is he Sam, and neither are anything more than two people who share such an awful and inherent bond that their bodies simply _mesh_, despite their hearts belonging to others.

It seems like an eternity, but it's really barely a moment they spend, loosely holding one another, before their lips brush past and against, together, in a too familiar dance, a lingering, mournful kiss.

And when they do break apart, neither feels embarrassed, though they know they should. Neither turns to run or breaks into stuttering apologies, though both are warranted. Neither even look away, avert their gaze from the other, both sets of eyes showing more despair than remorse.

"How could she ever love me now?" he says, tone measured and clipped. "How could she ever forgive me?"

And it's all Ava can do to keep from reaching for him again, letting her touch quell some of his pain. But it's not her place. No matter what she may feel, she _knows_ it's not her place. So instead she turns to leave, gaze lingering on his streaked eyes for only moment as she says simply, "How could she not?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: A bit of humor.

* * *

"No, no, no!" he shouts, indignant arms flapping. He jumps up from the couch, harshly jostling the girl who'd been curled around him, and jogs over to his sister. "Totally wrong."

Her hands immediately come to rest on her hips, typical angry Samantha pout. "What?" she asks bitterly. "How would you know?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, little Miss Perfect," he intones, mimicking her defiant stance. "I thought you asked for my help."

She wrinkles her nose as though the idea even _smells_ ridiculous. "I never _asked_, you just butted in," she nearly screams.

Michael looms over her, using his newfound height to his advantage as he says, "Well, trust me, you need the help."

Her mouth falls agape for only a moment, just long enough to register the shock, before closing in a tight, firm line identical to Ava's _you're gonna get it_ face they've all seen once or twice. She raises herself to her full height – admittedly not much, she's even shorter than John was at her age, and kids used to call him Munchkin Boy – and fights the urge to throw a punch.

There's something about Samantha Winchester that makes her an intimidating force to be reckoned with, even at eight-years-old. Anyone could see, she ran the roost, having all the men in her family wrapped around her tiny little finger. Even her mother – who hadn't realized how much she wanted a daughter until the little girl was first laid in her arms – was pretty much a pushover when faced with Sammy's sweet saccharine smile or false threat of tears.

She always gets what she wants.

Except with Aunt Sarah, that woman somehow having the necessary radar to know when Samantha's simply being a spoiled rotten brat, versus a normal needy child. But Aunt Sarah doesn't come around much anymore, and even when she does, she barely says a word.

"I don't need your help," she bites out angrily in that, _she's gonna blow_ way of hers.

But if there's a single person in this family who seems able to write off her temper as merely amusing, not falling prey to embittered threats and intimidation, it's Michael. Oh, sure, if she suddenly burst into tears or even shaped her lips into that infamous pout, he'd give in and leave her alone in a heartbeat. But right now she's simply too angry, too annoyed, to think about the best way to get him gone.

He laughs, always finding red-faced Sammy terribly amusing, even when it turns into fists flying red-faced Sammy, and pats her on the head. "Sure you don't," he says with a sardonic smile. "You've got a recital tomorrow, first solo ever, and you're screwing everything up. But, no, you don't need any help. Not from me," he continues, making his way back to the couch and the stunned blonde still sitting on it. "Never mind that I've been to almost every class with you, watched all the plies and Pas de Bourrée and other things. Never mind the fact that I can tell you exactly what you're doing wrong – and it is _wrong_. Nope, that's just fine. You don't need my help."

She stews for a moment longer before dramatically rolling her eyes and letting one, only one, hand fall from her hip. "Fine," she smarts. "What?"

He throws his arm around the girl beside him, settles back into the cushions with a satisfied smirk, and says, "You're not keeping time. You're so busy thinking about not messing up the Arabesque that you're rushing your Pirouette."

"How do you know all that?" the girl beside him asks, eyes wide with disbelief.

He frowns at her, brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't know," he says with a shrug. "I guess I just pay attention."

Samantha begins to spin on one foot, small body balanced delicately on the very tips of her toes, as she says, almost absently, "He comes to all of my classes. Last week he even corrected the teacher."

"She was trying to get Suzy to go into a Plié without even checking her turnout," he defends. Then, turning to the blond, "Poor kid has a turnout somewhere around 150 degrees."

"Okay," Samantha calls, still exhaustedly spinning before them, "Am I on time now?"

He studies her for a moment before clapping his hands together and reaching for the stereo remote. "Now with the music," he nearly shouts, pressing play. "From the top!"

She dances the whole routine straight through, three times, collapsing on the floor after the third. Michael applauds, leaving his seemingly confused and flustered girlfriend to go to his sister. He falls down to the hardwood beside her, smiling wide as she heaves out tired breaths among ragged chuckles. "That was good?" she asks, turning her sweat-stained face to her brother.

"Yeah," he sighs, "that was pretty good."

Michael's girlfriend stares at them long and hard, a crumpled mass on the floor, splayed legs and arms, waves of dark brown hair, faces that seem to hold the same expressions. They are obviously siblings. Anyone who pays attention to the interaction between the three Winchester kids can easily see that John's one too, his caring devotion clearly evident in his mere demeanor around the younger ones. But he doesn't look the part. He's light where they're dark, trunk-like as compared to their leanness.

Samantha and Michael just match. It's in their spindly arms and legs, their deep brown curls, their always gleaming, glinting eyes. Both give the impression of having an ever-ready sense of adventure, a constant sort of restless energy needing to be expelled.

"You guys look so much alike," she says, peering at them with her head cocked to the side.

Michael dips his head back, strains to see her. "Yup," he answers simply, as though this were something he'd been told a million times before. He rolls over quickly and jumps up in one fell swoop, bouncing as he says, "Again!"

Sammy whines, "Nooooo," before thrusting a leg up in the air, pointing at him with her toes. "My foot hurts."

"That's because your pointe's lazy," he replies, grabbing onto her foot and massaging the tip through her pink slipper.

"What lazy?" she asks, seeming affronted, but not moving from her prone position. "You said it was good."

"Good, not great."

"Well, I'm taking a break anyway," she says, pulling her foot from his grasp and rolling over with a groan.

He goes to sit back down as before, letting the girl burrow into his side. "What's with the music, though?" she asks, nose wrinkled. "I mean, it's not exactly ballet-like."

"First solo," Michael says, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, "they get to pick their own music."

"Okay, but why _that_?" she says with more than just a hint of disgust.

Samantha glares at her from the floor, says with unabashed hostility, "It's my cousin's favorite song. You know, the one who _died_ a couple months ago."

"Jeez, Sammy, she was just asking," he says. Then, giving her a quick squeeze, "Sorry Celeste."

"No," she offers, face white and drawn. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Well, obviously," Sammy replies, sitting up to stretch. "You didn't know her."

"Bitch much?" Michael retorts.

"_Bitch much?_" she mimics.

And as more a reflex than anything, he tells her to, "Watch your mouth," which leads only to a deathly little girl glare. He changes the subject suddenly, asking, "That was her favorite?" with a confused grimace.

She drops her glare and shrugs. "That's what Johnny said, figure he'd know."

"Yeah, I guess so," he responds absently before leaning over to grab the remote once more. "Now," he says steadily, preparing to yell, "Up, up, up!" He flips on the music, heavy guitar rifts shuddering the walls and drowning out Samantha's groans. "Again!"

The recital was a hit, at least as far as the kids were concerned. Most parents and family members had been to this sort of thing countless times over the years, everyone in Samantha's more advanced class having been taking lessons since they could walk. But they all put on brave faces, applauded and shone with pride when appropriate, cheered and quieted as if on que.

Yet no one seemed to have any idea what to do following Samantha's performance. There was a general sense of _huh?_ that pervaded the audience, not knowing if they should give the little girl a standing ovation – because, really, for an eight-year-old her turnout's outstanding, pirouette always on pointe – or hunt down her parents and beat them with sticks – because, _who the hell let her choose that song?_

Ultimately, it seemed, they decided on overcoming their stunned silence with the typical applause they'd all been so conditioned to offer. And after two more performances the night was over, shock regarding Sammy's routine mostly waned.

So they make it out alive, all the Winchesters, and that's reason enough to call the evening a success, even though Ava's sure they'll be getting a call from Madame Lise, likely many others from fuming parents, come the weekend.

They all head back to Dean and Ava's for celebratory cake, Michael's idea, him being of the mind that any and every small victory is deserving of cake. Sam and Sarah come too, despite complaints of being _too_ tired or having to get up for work _so_ early.

But Samantha had taken hold of both their hands in the parking lot, sandwiching herself between them as they walked to the cars, and prattled on about how great it was that they came, no one else had aunts and uncles there. And did they like her dance, it was dedicated to Maya, and did they think _she'd_ like, and…_please, please, please_ come over for cake and ice cream.

How could either say no to that?

Once there, though, Sammy pays them little heed, as overly excited young girls are prone to do, spending more time play-dancing with Michael in the crowded kitchen than sitting and talking with her relatives.

John watches and laughs, keeping post at the kitchen door to direct traffic, making sure his mother and aunt remain safe as they busy themselves with desert, while his two younger siblings spin and careen haplessly into one another.

Dean barely makes it out of there, Sam can tell, seeing his wide horrified eyes as he enters the living room, two plates of cake, also surprisingly intact, balanced on stiff, rigid hands. "I need a vacation," he says as he hands his brother his plate, smirks at Sam's reluctant laugh. He takes a seat beside him, sighs out exhaustedly, "So…that was interesting."

And Sam can't help but laugh a little harder, remembering the stunned, deer in headlights, _what the hell is she doing_ expression that played on his brother's face the moment his daughter's music began. "Yeah," he deadpans, "Can't remember the last time I saw a ballet set to Sabbath."

Dean glares at him, a quick, fleeting _shaddup_, before filling his mouth with chocolate. It's his own fault and he knows it. If there's one thing parenting has taught him it's that the past always comes back to bite you in the ass, and usually the teeth marks are from his children. Still, "John'll be grounded for life," comes out of his too full mouth amid icing and crumbs.

Sam almost winces, an automatic reaction to seeing his brother eat like that, like he hasn't eaten in months, a trait he likely picked up after actually forgoing food for days at a time when they were kids. "He was only being honest," he offers in his nephew's defense. "Samantha asked what her favorite song was, he told her."

"Yeah, well," he says after a gulping swallow, "he should have lied, said she loved, I don't know, Beethoven or something," the idea of which makes both men chuckle. Dean sets his plate down and leans back into the couch, reclining in silence for a moment, observing as Sam pushes the cake around the plate, never taking a bite.

"I remember you singing it to her," he says, almost a whisper, and Dean's surprised to see that his brother is actually smiling as he speaks. Sam shakes his head before looking back at him – another shock, really, because lately when memories involving Maya were relayed, Sam's gaze went anywhere to avoid eye contact. "Man," he says with a snicker, "what possessed you…"

"Hey, it's a good song," he defends with a lilt to his voice.

"It's about marijuana. You sang to my baby about pot, about loving pot."

"Not my fault the only thing that'd keep her from crying was a little drug talk from Ozzie," he says, remembering back to that sweeter time.

It was true, too. John had been easy, sing him a regular old lullaby and he was off to La-La Land. But Maya just wouldn't put up with any of that pussy shit. And he had tried it, in the beginning, when Sarah was at her wits end, crying hot tears into her baby's forehead, begging her to stop. And when Sam's soft rocking and humming, which usually did the trick with her, truth be told, just wasn't enough. And when Ava's prattling actually seemed to irritate the kid more, making her scream even louder, then, Dean would step in and steal her away.

And usually no one heard the things he sang to her. Usually no one cared, simply being so lost in the quiet bliss that leads to longed for sleep when the village tries to raise three kids at once. And that was alright with him, it gave him the chance to revisit some of the old classics he barely even got a chance to hear anymore.

She'd quiet and coo in his arms when he hummed out the instrumentals of Kashmir, close her eyes and gurgle when Back Door Man – and _thank God_ Sammy hadn't chosen that one for her recital – sidled from his lips in oddly sweet tones.

He tried out many different songs on her over that first year, gradually getting a feel for what she liked and then repeating them as the soft, tender lullabies it was almost sacrilegious for them to be. But that was all part of the fun, one of the only things he and Maya ever really shared, this little inside joke. The funniest part about it all for him was that above all others Maya reminded him of Sam, the way he was as a baby, the way he'd grown to be. And it was just plain hilarious to see that Sammy's little Mini Me could rock out to the classics from the get go.

He hadn't realized that was her favorite song, Sweet Leaf. Sure, she'd asked him over the years to sing it to her – when he and Ava and the kids stuck around until late at Sam's, sometimes sleeping over, or at least leaving the boys to, sometimes packing everyone up late into the night, driving the empty streets toward home.

They used to do that a lot, years ago, when the kids were younger and things were simpler. It used to be common practice for all four of them to jumble up the kids, almost losing sight of whose was whose, tucking one or the other, or all, in for the night, giving in to bizarre requests about bedtime stories, nightlights, _don't tuck in my feet. Leave the door open some, no, more, more, yeah, that much._

Back then a request for Black Sabbath didn't seem nearly as odd as it does now.

Sam interrupts his thoughts with a dreamy, humor-laced, "She never did have good taste in music," which prompts nothing more than a _psh_ sort of snort from Dean.

They fall into silence once more, and it's not the pained, awkward, _what do I say to make this right?_ quiet that had become so common as of late. So, Dean's actually reluctant to break it, but the words filter from his mouth regardless, unheeded, "Those were good times." Sam shoots him a curious look, one of confusion, filled with questions. "When they were babies," he offers, hoping to quell the glare.

Sam leans back into the couch as well, mirroring his brother's posture as both let their heads fall back into the cushions. "They were…tired times," he says softly. Then, "How come you were the only one who never seemed sleep deprived?"

He snickers under his breath. "Because I can sleep anywhere, anytime, anyhow. And I did. Always managed to catch up on my _z_'s even if it was at work or on the toilet," he says with a satisfied grin.

"Ew," instinctively comes from Sam, before leveling off into nothing, drowning the room once more in a soft hush, only the maniacal noises from the kitchen sounding around them.

It's Sarah who breaks the silence, standing, unbeknownst to either of them, in the doorway, when she says simply, almost nervously, "Sam? We should go."

And he responds as though it were a command, hoisting himself up from the couch, saying only, "See ya," in a mock upbeat tone as Dean walks them to the door.

"Hey," he says suddenly, once both of them have their coats and hats on, Sarah holding the door open just enough for a chill to settle around him. "Um," he struggles, unsure of just what to say. "Thanks for coming," he finally settles on. "Meant a lot to Samantha."

Both Sam and Sarah offer him sincere smiles, but it's only his brother who lets his hand fall to Dean's arm, giving him a quick reassuring squeeze as he says, "Any time," before heading out into the cold.


	3. Chapter 3  Part One

**Author's Note: I know, it's been a while. But I'm back, and I've brought a bunch of holiday themed angst with me, yay! This chapter was too long, so I split it into two parts, the second of which should be up very soon, pending a bit of fine tuning.**

* * *

She hadn't wanted to come home for Christmas, not really, not so soon after. The thought occurred to her to lie, lie like a dog on a rug, say she had a new boyfriend, and he _desperately_ wanted her to meet his parents. Or a group of girls she'd grown _really_ close to had invited her to go skiing over the break – isn't that what nice, friendly, rich girls do? – and it would be a _really_ great experience.

She knew her parents wouldn't say no, knew they'd consider something like that to be good for her, a sign she was moving on, getting past Maya's death. The reality of course, was that she wasn't, had actually spent the past several months falling even deeper into that all consuming pit.

There was no new boyfriend. There was no group of super sweet rich girls. There was only the overwhelming feeling of dread when thinking about being with her family, without _her_.

But she did miss them, almost tearing up whenever talking to her parents over the phone, or reading one of Uncle Dean's ridiculous and rambling emails. She missed Ava's sugar-high type voice, Michael's seemingly always increasing ego – which anyone could see he simply played up for laughs. She missed the feel of her mother's fingers in her hair and the deep rumbling of her father's laugh, the light lines and cracks that filled her uncle's face when he _really_ smiled. And she missed Samantha, that precocious little troublemaker that somehow always made her feel _better_.

So she came home, four days before Christmas, got off the plane and was greeted this time by a warm and smiling group of boys, men – her father who embraced her quickly and fully, uncle who gave her the evil assessing eye and told her she was too thin – _what the hell is it with California, don't they feed people there?_

Michael handed her a long, sloppily written list of all the things he wanted for Christmas that he figured she could afford, an explicit warning of, _you better get started, don't have much time and a lot of it's probably already sold out._ And John, whom she was surprised to find was taller than her, might have been for some time in fact and _how could she not notice?_ He leaned into her and softly said, as was so often his way, "Welcome home." The idea of which nearly set her to tears.

* * *

"Daaad," she emits in shrill eight-year-old whine before actually slapping his hand away. "No!"

"What?" he asks innocently. "I'm just trying to help."

"They are gingerbread men," she says deliberately, "not gingerbread _warriors_."

"Gladiators," he corrects with a crooked smile, holding up his armless masterpiece, crudely painted toga and red icing covering his small brown body.

"That's sick," Rachel comments, leaning over his shoulder to get a glimpse. She turns around, still stirring together the glompy dough. "When I gave you those I thought you would eat them, not…do that."

He makes a _psh_ sound, says, "Wasteful, just because they're not fully intact," and lays on some more _blood_.

She shakes her head, a gesture mirrored by Samantha, and says with a sigh, "What would Baby Jesus say?"

"Yeah, Dad," Sammy parrots in a too mature manner, "What _would_ the Baby Jesus say?"

"_Waaah_," he mocks before smirking to himself and saying with a coy lilt, "I'd be more concerned about what Santa'd say anyway. He's the one who holds the fate of my new sound system in his chubby little hands."

"You're going to Hell," Rachel says, one long finger pointed in his face.

"Yeah, like I've never been told that before," he responds smugly.

Samantha quirks up one eyebrow as she swipes her father's gladiator, bites off the bloody head and says, crumbs spilling over her lips, "Mommy tells him all the time."

"Well, she would know," he mutters under his breath, just bitterly enough to earn a _knock it off_ smack to the arm from Rachel. "Ow," he gripes, snatching the remainder of the cookie from his daughter's hand and, in a move mirroring hers, shoves it into his mouth, chewing as he speaks. "You beat on your boyfriend like that?"

She glares at him out of the corner of one eye, plainly sees that he's fishing for info more than making benign conversation. "Which one?" she asks innocently, causing his smile to falter, chewing pace to still.

"How many boyfriends do you have?" Samantha asks without looking up, consumed in her decorating project.

"Dozens," she replies bluntly.

Dean swallows hard, gazes at her assessingly. He's pretty sure she's lying, exaggerating at the very least. But the whole implication leaves him feeling unsteady. He starts to say something about her being full of shit, but before the words can leave his mouth he hears his daughter say in sweet and unassuming singsong, "I have two."

The cookie cutter is left laying on top of the rolled out dough, Rachel's hand lingering above it without ever pressing it in, all her attention instead shifting to her cousin. "Really?" she asks, both surprise and amusement filling her voice.

Dean shifts toward the girl, tries to keep his demeanor calm, voice steady, when he says, "What are you talking about?"

She wipes up a smear of green icing from the counter, licks it clean off her finger tip and turns to smile at him with wide colored teeth – and two gaping holes in front. "Don't be silly, Daddy," she says in an obviously placating tone. "You know Tony and Seth."

"Who and who?" he asks, feeling his resolve give way.

"Tony and Seth," she repeats, giving him a _duh_ look, "my boyfriends."

He lets out a nervous laugh, gaze flickering from his daughter to his niece, both girls offering straight stares. The laughter stops, odd half smile on his face quickly shifting into a frown as he turns and charges from the room, "Ava!" nearly shaking the walls.

"So easy," Samantha murmurs, head shaking back and forth, once Dean's out of ear shot.

And for the first time since she's been back, Rachel really, truly laughs.

"So how many boyfriends do you really have?" Sammy questions as her cousin's giggles begin to wane.

"Oh, uh…none," she tells her with a grin and a bump of her hip. "How about you? Tony and Seth for real?"

She makes a disgusted face, eyes still plastered to the decorating project before her. "They're real, but…ewwwww."

"Samantha," stuns the both of them out of their brief laughter, Sarah looming behind them in the doorway. "I don't know what you said to your father, but he seems _very_ upset." Her whole face breaks into a wide, coy smile as she approaches the girls.

"See what you did?" Rachel chides. "Gone and started a fight."

Sammy merely snorts, an act so like her father in both method and manner that it's almost startling. "They _always_ fight," she mutters absently, referring to her parents.

Sarah maneuvers herself behind her daughter to get to the oven, open it up and remove another sheet of men while saying, "Oh, they do not."

"Uh, yeah, they do," is the smart alek response. Then, as she turns back to grimly focus on her icing work, "They do now."

Sarah and Rachel both go silent, neither really knowing what to say, both sensing the sudden mood shift in the room. It was true though, even if neither of them had noticed, one being physically absent, the other mentally, from their family for some time now.

Dean and Ava fought. Sam and Sarah barely spoke. And both their children were more than aware of those facts.

"I'm sure they're fine, honey," Sarah says, laying a light hand on top of her niece's dark waves. Rachel looks over at her mother, each exchanging sad faux smiles briefly before Sarah perks up, notices something out of the corner of her eye, and says, pointing to one of Dean's gladiator cookies, "What the hell is _that_?"

* * *

It's Christmas Eve and all is seemingly well. Seemingly. Because Rachel managed to convince her father and uncle to put up the lights outside, including the giant Santa on the roof, which was no small feat for the two bickering brothers. And all the different types of necessary foods had been prepared with care – tree shaped sugar cookies and well dressed gingerbread men, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, butter cookies. Ava made a roast with all the trimmings. The tree's sparkling in the next room, complete with big gaudy lights and evenly spread tinsel. All the decorations are out and carols are filtering through the speakers.

And it's all just…awful.

But no one admits it. Each and every one of them smiling and laughing and _proving_ that life goes on, even if not a one of them actually believes it.

Last Christmas had been just as chaotic as all the ones before. Even with the kids being older, Winchester-bred insanity rarely waned, never ceased. Michael and John sang carols, only the ones they didn't know the words to, making up new and inappropriate lyrics that made Ava cringe, Christmas lover that she is, and Sarah giggle, always one for messing with tradition.

Rachel relayed all the details of every interesting class, every scholarly debate undertaken, to her father, Sam paying such close attention even while sipping at his wine that at one point she even told him, "I promise, Dad, there won't be a test." Samantha giggled, peppermint scent filtering up as her head lay heavily in Rache's lap – exhausted after dancing, with sugar-induced intensity, in circles all evening – candy cane slowly dissolving in her mouth.

Maya had a cold. That's all she really remembers. There aren't any warm and fuzzy memories of their last Christmas together, no great and wonderful gifts exchanged between the two sisters – a couple of sweaters and a watch she'd found at a resale shop by the pier from her. A CD of _quality music_ and a pair of leather boots she'd forgotten to take back to California with her, knows for a fact Maya wore all the time in her absence, from her sister.

All she really remembers about Maya's involvement last year, was that there wasn't any. She didn't help with the cookies because she was germy, so Rachel wouldn't let her. She didn't help with the lights because Sam was convinced she'd _catch_ pneumonia, no matter how bundled she'd have been. She didn't help with the tree or the decorations or anything else because…well, because, again, Rachel didn't want her spreading her germs all over her perfect holiday.

And once the day had come, the whole family gathered together to celebrate, Maya, the stuffy, coughing mess spent most of the evening laying on the couch, at times with her head on Sarah's lap, feet on Dean's, or leaning against John while watching TV. She doesn't remember her saying anything, other than one quick and fleeting comment about Michael's new _friend_.

She had blended so seamlessly into the background, always there even without doing anything. She could picture her over on the couch now, could pretend that she was just upstairs sleeping, going to bed early like she had just one year before. But her absence was more than just physical.

Even with everyone trying so hard, seeming so…content, there was an obvious, absolute absence, a niggling sort of _something's missing_. Even the presents under the tree seem tiny and sparse, as though Maya's had taken up such a noticeable amount of room.

But it is different, no matter how much they don't want to admit it. No one sings or runs or dances or plays. Conversation is forced. At one point the silence drags on for nearly an hour, no one saying a word, all seemingly so engrossed in A Christmas Story on TV. And at that, they barely even laugh, all ridiculous, light-hearted magic gone from their holiday.

It's not until after ten that the tension finally sparks something, quick, ill-mannered jabs between Sam and Rachel taking the place of their usual catch-up conversations. Because she doesn't want to talk about school, not even a little. So when her father pushes her she lets out, bitterly and easily, the news that she had bombed at least one final, maybe two, a thing that sets Sam's face into a stony, angry line.

"I'm sure you tried your best," Ava nearly whispers from across the room, eager to dispel the tension.

But she's had enough. Enough of this stupid holiday, this ridiculous farce. "No," she says simply, rising to her feet, "I didn't."

Sam doesn't move, makes no attempt to go after her as she heads for the door. He simply issues out a deep and dejected, "Rachel," by way of a warning.

She doesn't so much as acknowledge the sound of his voice, lazily clomping out of the room, leaving the lot of them to their pathetic little _celebration_, as she swipes her coat and hat before venturing out into the welcome cold.


	4. Chapter 3  Part Two

**Author's Note: I promise, I WILL do humor again. Just...not now.**

* * *

It wasn't really a fight per se, more just a passive-aggressive series of attacks between father and daughter. But between the two of them, that's pretty much how fights went.

Sam and Sarah would silently glare at each other. Sarah and Maya would serve up dual silent treatments. _Sam_ and Maya would scream and yell and pound on walls until the house shook. Even Sarah and Rachel had their own method of fighting – blithe and asinine quips shot back and forth, rapid fire. But when Rache had a beef with her father, or if Sam had one with her, that passive-aggressive Winchester hostility always took over.

She's twenty-years-old now, not quite old enough to drink legally, but hey, they're family and it's a holiday. So no one objected when she poured herself some wine. Or when she grabbed a beer from the fridge. Or another. No one told her to stop once her attitude began to shift, cruel jibes flowing from a newly brazen mouth.

By the time Dean finds her, bundled up out in the cold, empty bottle dangling perilously from her fingertips, all he can think is _Thank God there wasn't egg nog_. That shit is just as nasty coming up as it is going down. And there's not a doubt in his mind, seeing her now, that _something_'s gonna come up at some point tonight.

"There you are," he says simply, trying not to snicker at the drunken, wobbly double take she does. He sits down next to her on the cold wooden bench, lets his gaze falter out to the dark trees and grass beyond, the wide private yard where his kids used to play.

"Here I am," she says slow and measured after too long a pause.

She slumps back into her seat and he turns to see her. "Been looking for you," he says, before leaning back himself. "Kind of cold out here."

She shrugs, barely perceptible beneath her heavy coat and scarf, and then turns to glare at her uncle. "I wanted to be alone."

"Yeah," he grins, noticing how similar her expression right now is to the one he had so cleverly labeled as _drunken, pissy Sammy_ some thirty years before. "I kinda figured that. But, you know, it's Christmas Eve, I figured your parents might get a little pissed if I let you freeze to death out here."

She turns away, eyes out to the lawn, when she says, voice suddenly harsh and deep, "I doubt it."

Which wipes the smile clean off Dean's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs again, lazy and jagged, and lets out a sigh. "What would it matter?" drips slow and sincere from her chapped lips.

"Hey," he barks, straightening up and turning towards her. "Don't say shit like that." She looks at him as though through a thick haze before quirking a corner of her mouth up in a seemingly coy grin, an _I'm only kidding_ sort of smirk. "Your parents love you," he says absently, almost as though rehearsed. "They'd care if you froze," he ends with a light note to his voice, downplaying the fact that he can see in her eyes that she was serious to begin with.

She scoffs loudly, almost guttural, turns away with her lips set once more in a firm line. "They don't even know _how_ to care anymore."

She's been drinking for hours, maybe on and off all day, for all he knows. But he's only had a couple of beers, no where near drunk enough to be having this conversation. And he almost says so, almost tells her, _look, I can't do this right now, today's been hard enough already, tomorrow'll probably be worse_. But all that comes out is, "Rache," a mournful sigh.

"They don't even love each other anymore," she almost slurs.

"That's not true," he counters, thinking, for the first time in a long time, that's she's too immature to understand.

"Last couple of days he's been sleeping in their room. But it's all a show, all for me. I know he hasn't been in there in a long time."

And Dean can't help the, "What?" that slips past his tongue. Because, obviously, things had been tense around here, communication clearly lacking between the two, but… "How do you know?"

She glances up at him quickly, odd glare on her face as though she'd forgotten he was still there, didn't think he'd been listening, and doesn't now want to be bothered with his foolish questions. "He changed her sheets," she says plainly, looking away. "Her bed, it doesn't smell like Maya anymore. It smells like him."

He takes a deep breath, tries to explain something he himself doesn't fully understand. "They still love each other," he says finally. "It's just…this is a though time for them."

"For _them_," she repeats, venom to her voice, a statement and a question all in one.

"For all of us," he corrects. "But you gotta understand," he begins again, wondering if there's any way to explain how fundamentally _different_ it is to lose a child, how earth-shattering and all encompassing that sort of grief can be. "They're all alone here, Rache. It's just…hard."

"I'm all alone there," she counters, no emotion behind her words.

His hand instinctively falls to her back. "I know kid."

But if she notices it doesn't show, newfound words spilling from her despite his attempt at comfort. "Dad always understood her," she says, tone too contemplative for someone sitting drunken in the cold. "More than anybody."

"They're a lot alike," he murmurs absently.

"She'd do stuff…like, just flip a switch or something," she tries to explain, "go…moody. She could be a real bitch, you know?"

He laughs under his breath, gives a slight nod. "Yeah, I know."

"But he always knew…if something was really bugging her." She shifts in her seat, turns to face him with glassy eyes, breath clouding the air between them. "When we were little, Mom used to make her take a nap when she got all grouchy, which never worked. She'd throw a temper tantrum and sit in her bed screaming 'til Mom was ready to pull her hair out. But Dad, he knew if she was tired and needed a nap. Or frustrated about something. Or bored or just pissed at the world." She stops just long enough to lock eyes with her uncle. "How'd he always know?"

"I don't know," he says, averting her stare. Because he doesn't want to say something that might hurt her – _they were just that close, had that strong a bond_. Or something that she wouldn't be able to understand – _sometimes parents just_ know.

She shrugs her shoulders when he doesn't go on, lets out a long deflating sigh. "There were times I thought I knew her," she says, barely a whisper. "Now…"

"Yeah," Dean comments softly, a simple agreement to an all too complex emotion.

The bitter breeze kicks up a bit, stinging all uncovered flesh. But neither make a move to rise, leave the cold, rejoin their family inside. Because even with hot chocolate and a fire in the fireplace, a smiling and laughing Ava zipping through random bits of gossip and a zonked out Michael on the floor, that place was anything but cozy and comfortable.

When she speaks again, an eerie sort of complement to the slight whistle of the wind, thick and cold silence surrounding it, the words seem sober despite their air of petulance. "Everybody knows she was their favorite. Everybody."

He turns and stares wide-eyed, open-mouthed, for a long moment before, "Rachel," falls from his lips in one light breath.

"I'm not jealous or anything," she utters simply, meeting his stricken gaze. "It just doesn't seem right is all." She looks away, back out towards the dark. "She was always so…" she tries, making a tight-lipped, firm fisted gesture before finally finding the right word, "stingy. Like love's so hard to give. And it just made everybody want it more. You know? Like it means more if you have to work for it."

He nods, though she's paying no attention and doesn't even see. He nods because he's never really thought of it before, never really realized how true that might be. Maya'd always been the independent one, the one who tried so hard to make it seem as though she never needed anyone for anything. But he'd never thought that in so doing she had been withholding her love.

Until now. Now, he realizes, that deep ache that would rise whenever she turned her back was exactly that, a sense of rejection.

Look at poor Sarah. It was obvious that she and Rachel got along, almost falling into that creepy _my mom's my best friend_ kind of relationship. They had more in common, shared interests, similar sense of humor, impassioned work ethic. Outwardly, it seemed, and surely anyone would say, that Rachel was her favorite child – if there were such a thing among parents.

But the look of sheer and pure joy, of love, that rose to her features on those rare occasions when Maya called her _mommy_, leaned into her wholly, trusting, letting Sarah wrap around her until they appeared to be one once more. When she said, hushed, almost secretively, an utterance just for her, "I love you," that was a look he'd never seen Rachel spark in her mother before.

"I hate that," she says suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. "I always hated that." She turns to her uncle, eyes, though barely visible in the dark night, flickering in a dangerous and fiery way. "I hate _her_."

Their eyes are locked for one long and knowing moment before he feels his body tense, features stiffen, as the deeply buried truth rolls up on him. "Me too," he says pointedly.

"How could she do that?" Rachel asks, emotion filling her words.

His voice is level and deep when he responds with, "I don't know."

"It's like she didn't even care, like she never cared," she almost sobs.

He nods, rising from the bench, stalking off to the edge of the porch, white-knuckling the rail.

"She was important, you know? She was one of us. And…and…"

"And she threw it all away," he finishes for his niece. "All of it."

Rachel straightens up behind him, fabric of her coat rustling against the bench. She snuffles once, swallows hard before saying, deep and controlled, "She never asked for help. We would have helped her. With anything. Why didn't she ever just _ask_?"

But the question is unanswerable, even worse than rhetorical. So he says nothing.

She clumsily pulls herself off the bench, only feeling the heaviness of her drunken body once standing, and rubs her mittened hands absently together as she approaches her uncle. He doesn't turn to look at her, only continues his blank stare out towards the night.

"I hate her," she whispers at his shoulder. "I _hate_ her," a low hiss through shallow breaths.

His face remains stagnant, hard and unmoving, but for the steady _blink, blink_ of his lids, shooing out the stinging tears.

"She shouldn't have done it," she says from behind him, and he can almost hear the mournful shake of her head in the hollow quiet of the night. "She had no right."

"No," he breathes out, subtle and scratchy.

"I hate her," she repeats, words filled with so much anger it hurts him to hear. But it doesn't stop him from agreeing, nodding his head vehemently. And it pains him to so, sets off a deep and angry ache in his chest, one that rises slowly, thickly in his throat. To hate the little girl he once so loved. The baby whose diapers he changed on a rotating basis with his own son, dressed in John's overalls or blue bunny PJs when he was too tired or lazy to search hers out. The toddler who took her first steps on his watch, waiting until he was turned away to clomp off in another direction, protesting with high-pitched squeals when he lifted her up, bouncing and cooing about how amazing she was. The kid who sat and idly debated with him the merits of Goodfellas versus The Godfather versus Scarface – three movies even Dean wouldn't have allowed a twelve-year-old to see. The teen who just months ago scared the living shit out of him on a mere drive to the store, had him hanging on for dear life in his own car, the sweet, unobtrusive sound of her laughter echoing, even now, in the periphery.

He nods because it's easier that admitting the truth. Easier to say that he hates her for all this pain than to admit he loves her despite it. Easier to blame and rail against someone who can't stand up and argue back, than to try and understand the unfathomable. Easier to shove away the memories, deny the mistakes, than to simply stand up and move past them.

Rachel leans heavily into him, dropping her head onto his shoulder, soft woolen hat tickling his neck. And she says, barely even a whisper, so light and quiet that he almost wonders if it's her voice at all, or someone else's on the wind, "I miss her."

And he nods again, letting his chin fall to rest on her head.

"I don't," she cries, "I hate…but…I just…" Hot tears trail down her cheeks, drop to his neck. "I want…everything…"

He lets go of the rail, throws both arms around her, lets her bury herself wholly within the tight circle of his embrace. The cold wind kicks up again, freezing the wet tracks of his own sorrow as he mutters simply, "Me too."

Her face is buried in his arm, his shoulder, so he barely hears her when she says, words clenched and bitter, "I need to know." He lets his grip loosen, pulls away a bit so that he can see her face, and gazes appraisingly. "I need to know what happened," she expounds, clear and controlled despite the shimmer of tears on her face. "I need to know why."

"Okay," he says, not knowing what else to say.

She looks away, voice hitching when she says, "I don't blame Dad for not knowing. Before, I mean…before it happened. I did. And I blamed myself. And I still blame her." She lets out another long and telling sigh. "John said he gave Dad her diary," she says, gaze falling back to him. It isn't phrased as a question, but it's clear she's expecting a response.

"Yeah," he replies. "He did."

"Do you know what he did with it?"

He frowns, nods slightly, before saying, "He burned it."

But she doesn't seem surprised, doesn't seem angry or upset at all. She simply straightens her back, letting Dean's arm drop from around her shoulder as she turns away once more. "I'm not going back," flows from her lips, cool and steady, assured. "There's nothing I feel like I need to learn at school. Not now." She locks eyes with him one more time, stare showing him just how serious she is.

"Okay," he says, strong and true, a promise forged between them. "Okay."

She relaxes a bit, swivels her head to the backdoor where the kitchen light shines through in a soft orange glow. Santa, bright red and white, looms off to the left, leaning precariously on the roof, and she's tempted to send her father back up there in the morning to fix him, no snow meaning no excuse.

"Will you do me a favor?" she asks quietly.

"What?" he says, knowing better than to say something like, _sure, anything_ to her.

She smiles, crooked and sly, and he can smell traces of beer on her breath when she says, "Tell my mom and dad for me? That I'm not going back to school."

He laughs, a mix between incredulous and belligerent. "No way in hell," he scoffs, turning to go back inside, tugging her along with him. "I take no responsibility for their kid being a college dropout."

She follows behind, smiling a bit as she scrubs at her face, prepares to return to the _celebration_ inside. "Chicken," she mutters softly, taking one last deep breath before walking through the door.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: This way lies death!

* * *

Mike had never fallen by the wayside, not really, stiff, furry little body never ignored, value and place within the family never forgotten. Even with Michael's newfound interest in girls – that having taken up most his time of late, coloring most of his thoughts – he still treasured his beloved pet.

And if there was anyone who loved Mike more than Michael, or the same at least, it was Samantha, whom, after dragging the stuffed rabbit around for most of her life, treated the scroungy dearly departed beast like a morose sort of security blanket. Most nights she still ended up in bed with her, soft fur tickling her nose as she slept.

There was never a day gone by that the rabbit didn't make herself known, appearing somewhere she had no business being – top shelf of the pantry, one glassy eye peeking out from behind a cereal box. The mantle in the den, laying lopsided amid framed family snapshots. The fridge, waiting ever so patiently to scare the living crap out of some unsuspecting hungry soul. Ava's underwear drawer. The microwave. John's backpack. The hood of the Impala.

Inevitably someone would scream, curse under his or her breath, yell out for Michael, whether he was home or not, whether he was believed to be the mastermind or not, to _come get your damn rabbit!_

And it was just something they all had to get used to. Mike, so it seemed, was destined to be with them for life, torturing them for life, if the past six years were any indicator. At least that's what they all thought, Dean and Ava resigning themselves to many more years with a dead creature in their midst, the kids growing complacent in the knowledge that their faithful friend would never leave their sides.

But nothing lasts forever, not even taxidermy pets.

Mike had a habit of choosing dangerous hiding spots, everyone knew, so it was common practice in the Winchester house to look before one sat, check before warming up the oven, never turn on the shower before first inspecting the tub. Search the laundry before putting a load in the wash.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fabric softener Ava used, allowing clothes and towels, blankets and sheets to retain their subtle softness even after being worn and soiled, that enticed her so. Michael claimed she liked to hide in hampers and such because she was comforted by her family's scents – a thing that never appeared to be true when she was alive, but who were any of them to argue?

No matter the reason, she all too often ventured into the laundry, burying herself beneath Dean's dirty socks – a place only a lifeless nose could tolerate. Or being tossed in accidentally, Samantha forgetting that she lay amid her covers on the days that Ava washed the bedclothes. And normally, because she knew to check, a small unmoving lump tangled in the sheets did not go unnoticed, even by ADD Ava, and she'd be rescued, saved from having to take a spin through the rinse cycle.

Not today. Today, this fateful day, had begun rather roughly, morning spent with kids whipping by at a frantic pace, parents tripping over the top of them as everyone tried to get out the door on time. There was a storm the night before, the power went out in the middle of the night, unbeknownst to them, and none of the alarms had gone off.

Ava blamed Dean, griping in a high pitched voice about faulty wiring and how could he not have known, not woken up, _I thought you were supposed to be some kind of always on your toes hunter!_

Dean explained, in low tones, him actually having the presence of mind to remember the little ears in the next room, that he was _not_ in charge of the weather, he was _not_ a fucking meteorologist, and furthermore, he's _not_ a fucking psychic, that's her gig, so why didn't she _wake the fuck up?!_

Things went downhill – rather loudly – from there.

To escape the shouting and general tension, Mike, with the help of Samantha, hid in the laundry room amid a pile of John's clothes. And when Ava came in a while later, kids off to school, Dean still dramatically stomping out, she was too consumed with wrathfully mumbling to herself to pay any heed to her actions, tossing John's stuff in along with Dean's by accident – because it was only her husband's clothes, his jeans and T-shirts and such, that she intended to bleach the hell out of – and never even thinking to look for a bunny amid the boxers.

Mike dies – the second time – in a swirl of hot water and bleach, glassy eyes unblinking as the constant push and pull of the whirlpool strips her of her satiny fur, bloats her freeze dried body.

* * *

It's never been uncommon for Dean to hear from his wife in the middle of the day, sometimes for a reason – _the car won't start. John sprained something in PE. The freezer's frozen shut again and it has my chicken inside and it won't let me get to it and I can't find my hairdryer – what do you mean, what does that have to do with anything? I have to thaw it so I can get in it so I can rescue my chicken so I can thaw _it_ so I can cook it so I can feed your children!_

And sometimes it was just to say _hey_.

He was expecting, considering the blowout they'd had this morning, that she would call, inform him when that something else in the house had gone terribly wrong and it was entirely his fault, yet again. So when Saul told him his wife was on the phone, he steeled his ears against the shriek in her voice before ever even touching the receiver. He was expecting some angry and asinine little quips about some such problem that been going on for some time but for whatever reason needed to be dealt with _right now_. He was expecting to have to tune her out, issue a few placating _uh huh, sure thing_'s before hanging up and convincing himself it was wrong to race home right now and kill his wife with the wrench in his hand, wrong to kill himself with it too.

What he was most definitely not expecting, was a string of indecipherable sobby babbles. "Oh my…I don't know…I didn't look, but it was _you_, just made me so mad it's like I'm blind! What do I do? There's fluff and…white, she's not white, and bleached and _gone_. And John's pants! It's so _gross_…I don't know…I…I…my God!"

And it's not as though he's never heard his wife panic before, heard the terrified lilt to her voice as she rushes to get out as much nonsensical information as possible before the sobs take over. And it's not as though he doesn't know that most often these moments are over nothing at all, losing a necklace or one of the kids calling her mean, or burning cupcakes and nearly the whole kitchen – okay that one was something, but still, in general, he was able to keep his cool in times like these.

But that was before. Things have changed. It only takes one unexpected phone call relaying an awful tragedy to make a person afraid of answering the phone ever again, to cause them to jump to conclusions every time the lunatic on the other end breaks down in tears.

"What?" he nearly shrieks over her. "Ava, what? What is it? What happened?"

She takes a deep breath on the other end and spits out bitterly, loudly, "Your stupid AC/DC shirt is _white_!" which, truthfully, he can't even respond to. "I didn't know," comes out a fraction of a second later in a grief-filled sob.

"Didn't know what?" he tries again. "Baby, _what_?"

She hiccups through the tears, voice mushy and ragged. "Mike."

"Mike," he repeats, unsure of which Mike she means.

And as though she can sense his confusion, "The _rabbit_," is spat in his ear.

He releases a long held breath he didn't even know he'd been saving, says with a sigh, "What happened to Mike?"

She's calmer now, but her words still fray a bit at the edges, hiccups taking the place of the occasional preposition. "She went in…laundry. I didn't know. But she got all…wet. I think…I think…there's fur everywhere."

He cringes deeply, shutting his eyes while taking a seat at the desk, pinching viscously the bridge of his nose. "Shit," he mumbles absently, prompting an obnoxious scoff from his wife, her own wordless, _that's helpful_.

They each sit on their respective ends for a moment in utter silence, Ava working to get a grip, Dean trying to think up an idea, a solution. "She's gone, Dean," breaks into the quiet, a mere whisper, followed by a roll of nervous giggles. "She's _dead_."

"She was dead before," he reminds her.

"I know, but…no more rabbit in the vegetable drawer. No more rabbit in the medicine cabinet. No more rabbit on a string that runs out to trip you when you get home from work," she issues out, low and conspiratorial.

"Damn rabbit," he grumbles.

"But the kids," she says suddenly. "They're gonna be heartbroken. Except John," she adds flippantly, recalling the incident last year when Mike _attacked _his girlfriend while they were on the front porch _saying goodnight_.

"Yeah," he breathes out in response. This would be tough on them, really, really tough. Michael loved that ridiculous thing more than any of them thought possible. And Samantha damn near grew up with her, never knew a better friend.

"They're gonna hate me," she whispers, voice breaking.

He sits up straight, never one to be comfortable with hearing a woman cry, especially one he loves so much. "No they're not," he tries softly. "They won't hate you," even though he's unsure of its veracity. "Hey, how many times did we tell them not to let her in the laundry? It's not your fault."

She sniffles a bit, says coyly, a smile present in her voice, "No, it was _yours_. You made me so _mad_."

"Uh, yeah, because I couldn't control the weather or the power of our neighborhood block," he replies, no tension to his voice.

"That's right," she mutters, lilt to her words. "You need to work on that so I don't do something stupid like this again."

"How come when I do something stupid it's _my_ fault, but when you do something stupid, it's _also_ my fault?" he says casually, feeling that awful weight that hits his shoulders when they fight gradually being lifted.

"Because I'm perfect and can do no wrong."

He smiles despite himself, says rather brazenly, "So you didn't just massacre our kid's best friend?"

And is met with a quick and biting, "Shut up."

* * *

The funeral is hard, not emotionally so much as…logistically. Because pieces of Mike are stuck to pieces of Dean and John's clothes, and those clothes are, obviously, due to the bleach and the dead rodent parts, ruined. So Ava makes the command decision to bury the whole load. In the middle of winter, ground frozen.

Sam comes over to help Dean with the digging, the two being rather experienced and adept at breaking ground even under the harshest of circumstances, knowing just when to grab the shovel or axe from the other's hand, trade off, work 'til the job's done, all without a word.

Then comes the task of finding a box to fit it all in, a thing they hadn't counted on having to do, the plan being simply to dump, ceremoniously of course, the laundry and Mike into the hole. But when Samantha hears this, she cries, nearly shrieks, "She needs a coffin! It's _necessary_."

"Sweetheart," Dean tries, still out of breath and numb from digging up the backyard in twenty degree weather, "she doesn't need it, I promise. She'll be fine."

"How can she be fine, Dad?" Michael asks bitterly, eyes still red and puffy. "She's _dead_," which only sends his sister into bigger, fatter tears.

He pulls her close, gathers her in his arms as he shoots a quick glare at his son, followed with a _help me_ look at his wife. "Honey," Ava coos, moving over to try and comfort her daughter.

But, "No!" is the alarming response she's met with, Sammy shouting in her face and clinging tighter to her father. "Murderer!" falls from her round little mouth, a smaller version of Ava's own, and it nearly breaks her heart.

"Samantha," comes out in a deep though loving chide from Sam. "You know it wasn't her fault." He crosses the room as Dean picks his daughter up, lets her wrap her arms around his neck. "It was an accident," he says soft and sincere, huge hand, falling to her head. "A horrible, awful accident."

And it might have worked, may have been convincing enough, if only he wasn't working so hard to keep from smiling, fight back the giggles that yearned to pop out. "It's not funny!" she screams in his face, and by extension Dean's ear.

Michael, still moping in the corner, arms crossed angrily in front of him, mumbles something to the effect of, "She'll rot."

He's met with an affronted, "What?" from his father, who, with ears now ringing, thought he might have said something terribly inappropriate about his mother.

"I said she'll rot," he repeats, glaring. "If we don't bury her in a coffin. Or a box."

"Michael," he sighs, working to rock the crying little girl who's just a _bit_ too large for his arms. "She's been dead for six years. If she hasn't rotted yet, she's not gonna."

He counters with, "Animals will eat her. And insects. Maggots," which he says with just enough disgusted certainty that Samantha has no choice but to let loose with another sob and a shriek.

She clings even more to Dean, wraps tighter around his neck, so vice-like that he barely manages to choke out, "Fine. Damn it. I'll find a box," while trying to set her down. When she doesn't budge, neither loosening her hold nor unwrapping her legs from around his torso, Sam steps up and pats him on the shoulder, a silent sort of _don't worry about it, I'll take care of it_.

"Something metal," Michael says as he follows his uncle out of the room and onto the search. "I don't want the elements to ravage her."

Two hours later and the garage and basement are destroyed, pillaged by Sam and Michael, and John who joins the hunt later on, in an attempt to find the perfect interment vessel for Mike. Samantha's still clinging to her father, giving her mother the evil eye, every so often mouthing the word _murderer_ in her general direction. Dean's back is cramped from digging and lugging around an eight-year-old, his lap numb from her dead weight on top of it. But the rabbit is in the ground. Mission accomplished.

They all sit in the kitchen, warming up after the longwinded, outdoor funeral, Michael insisting on regaling the mourners with all his favorite Mike-related stories. Ava made cookies, peanut butter, which most everyone thinks are gross, but just happen to be Samantha's favorite, and they're still sitting piled high on a plate, untouched.

"I still can't believe she's gone," Michael says softly, breaking the silence.

Sam lays a comforting hand on his knee, says, "It's only been a day, give it time," in the most convincing manner he can muster.

"I still can't believe that you killed her," he remarks, shooting a glare in his mother's direction.

Her face breaks a bit, and when John notices he can't help but point out that, "You killed her first," causing a pained look and a stunned silence to fall over his younger brother.

Ava swallows hard, prepares to talk. She slides the plate over closer to Dean and Samantha, offers timidly, "You want a cookie, baby?" and watches as her daughter turns away, angling herself as far from her mother as she can get while still remaining plastered to Dean.

Sam speaks up, eager to wipe away that dejected look that covers Ava's countenance. "Maybe you could get another rabbit," he suggests tentatively. And it does the trick, Ava no longer appearing sad so much as horrified, the thought of another vicious little beast running rampant in her home, long after it's dead even, not being a welcome one. "Or," he starts, upon seeing her face, and Dean's – whose expression is nearly a mirror of hers only with more of an _I'm going to kill you_ air – "maybe…a cat."

"A what?" Dean asks, low and deep, disbelieving.

But Ava's face lights up, posture straightens, as, "I love cats! I used to have a cat," flows eagerly from her.

Samantha, unimpressed, mumbles into her father's shoulder, "Did you kill it too?" Which earns her a harsh jostle from Dean.

"I know you said you didn't want another dog," Sam says, looking at his brother.

"I like cats," Michael admits from his sulky post across the table. "I guess."

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to get feeling back in his legs. "I don't," he gripes, before standing, kid still clinging to him like a needy monkey.

"Why not?" Ava lets out in a whine.

"Because they're chick pets," he responds, moving his girl to his hip and trying to hide the ache in his back, his legs, his arms.

"I'm a chick," she says, challenging.

"Me too," comes in a whisper from his shoulder.

"So's John," Michael chimes in, rising from his slouch and reaching out towards the pile of cookies.

"Hey!"

"Good," Ava claps. "A cat," as though it's been decided.

"What?" Dean sputters. "No."

But Ava doesn't hear him, or simply doesn't care what he has to say, because for the first time all day her daughter turns to her with something other than hatred in her eyes. "What will we name her?"

Dean's face furrows. "Name who? I said _no_." But naturally, he is again ignored.

John moves over and holds out his arms for his little sister, just as he's tried twice already, but this time she gives in, lets her father gratefully transfer her over. "Well," John says, swinging Sammy to his side, "Michael named Mike after him – "

"What?" Michael interrupts. "I did not."

The room goes silent, a collective _oookay_ vibe filtering through the air before John turns back to his sister and finishes with, "Maybe we should name her after you."

"Name who? What?" Dean asks, leaning heavily against the wall.

Samantha smiles, wide and toothy but for the two front gaps only now showing white poking through her pink gums. "Really?" she asks simply.

Sam steps up, "I don't know – " but is both ignored and cut off as John goes on.

"Yeah, we'll call her Sam-Cat. You know, so there's no confusion."

"Great," Sam mutters, falling back into the wall beside his brother.

"Oh," Ava remarks, "that's cute."

And Dean continues to glare confusedly at his family, "What?" falling from his lips again. "What are you people talking about?"

"Naming our cat, Daddy," Samantha says as she lets John put her down. Pent up energy reigning as the little girl begins dancing around, singing, "Sam-Cat! Sam-Cat! Sam-Cat!" with glee.

"Cat," he says, "no, no cat. I don't like cats."

Sammy stops singing, stops dancing, turns to her father with an icy stare and says, "Mommy said we're getting cat. And her name is Sam-Cat. And I love her!"

The scream slices through him, too loud and high-pitched for such a small girl. But Ava doesn't seem to notice, or care, too excited about the fact that her daughter is no longer angry with her, instead hopping into her lap and grabbing a cookie.

"Am I freaking invisible here?" Dean nearly shouts. "Did no one hear me?"

And Sam tries to help, he does, moving forward and saying, "You know what guys, I think your dad might actually be allergic to cats." He shoots a conspiratorial glance to his brother, one that's not lost on anyone. "Right, Dean?"

"Yeah," he responds slowly. "I'm allergic. Get all itchy."

Ava smiles at him, knowledge that she's won already lighting her features. "I think they have something for that, a shot in the ass."

He glares at her, the two locking eyes, as he responds with, "I'll give _you _a shot in the ass."

"Eww," Michael mutters, cookie in mouth, grossed-out cracking to his face.

Ava, usually so ready with witty little comebacks, merely blushes, glances awkwardly at Sam, and says, "Children present," as though that were supposed to mean something.

"I don't want a cat," Dean whines, his last attempt. He pouts in a way that would put his spoiled brat of a daughter to shame when he says, "I don't like cats."

Sam steps up next to him, bumps his shoulder with his own. "Think of it this way man," he says, quiet enough for only Dean to hear, all others in the room now consumed with cat details, "You didn't really like kids before you had a couple either, right? And that worked out okay."

His eyes scan the family before him, teenage boys discussing what type of _cat_ to get – _Persians are so soft. But you have to brush them everyday. What about a Siamese?_ Little girl snacking excitedly on _peanut butter_ cookies, humming Swan Lake under her breath and absently pointing her toes as her legs swing in rhythm. _These_ were his children?

"Yeah," he mumbles absently, "I guess that worked out alright."

* * *

A/N: For Sam Cat, great Supernatural fan that she was. 


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Sorry about the terribly LONG wait. I was...stuck.

* * *

She's too weak to dig, the years of being away at school with no more than a measly student gym and no motivation having taken their toll. Although, really, she couldn't be sure that she'd ever been able to dig up a body, even when training under her uncle's inscrutable gaze, seeing as how the last hunt she'd been on, only hunt for that matter, she'd simply held the shovel for as long as it took them to traverse the cemetery. It was entirely likely that she'd _always_ been too weak.

"Part of the job, kid," Dean grunts through haggard breaths as he takes his turn in the hole, thick, rocky dirt being flung near her shoes as he continues to break the earth.

She watches him through cloudy eyes, first hints of spring being hell on her allergies, and notices the steady and studied method he has. Sense memory, he's been doing this for so long he doesn't even have to think about it, his body just takes over. She knows for a fact that he's got a bum shoulder, the right one often clicking in and out of place, bone on bone. At times he favors it, only when he thinks no one's watching, he'll stretch and groan at the pain. He's never told her what happened to it, just _work-related injury_ or _nothing really, just worse for the wear_.

He leads with the right, shoving the shovel in deep, chunking away at the ground, in wide fluid motions, never so much as wincing.

"I know," she says quietly, still studying his movements. "I guess I need to hit the gym."

When he strikes something solid he tosses the shovel up into her father's waiting hand, the other wrapping around Dean's wrist as he hauls his brother from the hole and hops down inside, taking his place, wiping away the layers of dirt before wrenching open the coffin with a crowbar. All this they do without a word, falling into rhythm, an odd sort of dance between two men she's known her whole life yet doesn't recognize at all. Out here they're different.

Once the casket's been pried open, Dean now extending his hand to pull _Sam_ up, they dump salt and lighter fluid onto the decades old body, stench of musty rot being overwhelmed by the oddly sweet odor or accelerant.

She stands in the background, quiet and still, until her uncle looks her way, bites out a "Rache," startling her from her trance.

"Yeah?" she says simply.

He quirks his head at her, points to her hand where she holds a book of matches. "You mind?"

"Oh, yeah," she says, shaking her head and moving forward, striking a match and then igniting the entire book before dropping it unceremoniously into the open grave.

They stand there in silence, Sam and Dean catching their breath behind her as she looms over the edge, watching as the corpse burns, wondering how many times a person could possibly come this close to an open grave without falling in.

* * *

They hadn't been on a hunt since Maya, hadn't seen much need to and certainly hadn't had any desire to, so both Sam and Dean stared, speechless, mouths agape, when she approached them with the proposition. "I just think it could be…fun," she said, aiming for lighthearted and casual.

"Rachel," her father began, words slow and measured, "hunting isn't _fun_. It's not supposed to be fun."

And for a moment she actually felt guilty, childish insecurities having mysteriously plagued her ever since her return home a couple months earlier. That's why she only then brought up the idea of hitting the road, despite the desire to hunt prickling at her senses over the entirety of those months. "I just thought," she said, head down in uncharacteristic solemnity, but wasn't able to finish, a loud and insolent scoff coming from her uncle.

"Bullshit, it's not fun," he said simply. "Sammy, the stick in the mud." He turned to her then, asked, words drowning out the sentiment of his brother's disdainful glare, "What did you have in mind?"

And everything pretty much fell into place from there.

It was a simple salt and burn, something to keep them busy, something to get her back into the swing of things. Just something to do.

Sam had asked her repeatedly why she wanted to go on a hunt. Why was it so important? What was the point? And she'd had an answer for everything, fitting as they were, paying no heed to the fact that, she could tell, he didn't believe a word of it.

_You always said you'd take me again. And what's the point of having the training if I don't use it. It might be good for you, for all of us, to do something…different. _

And there was some truth in everything she said, a glimmer here, a nugget there. She _did_ believe it would be good for them, because Uncle Dean always loved to hunt, she'd known that from the time she was a small child and noticed the look on his face when he prepared to leave for a weekend. And her dad _could_ use the distraction, having had his head buried in his work, papers constantly spread all over the kitchen table, his office now sitting hollow and empty for some undisclosed reason.

And it seemed to have worked, old habits dying hard, each brother quickly falling into pace beside one another, hitting their working rhythm. This was old hat to them, a comfortable former life that did, as she suspected, serve as a distraction, a welcome one at that. Right up until the end. Right up until they remembered what it was they were all being distracted from.

* * *

She was about to turn twenty-one, had lived, essentially, on her own for the better part of three years, but still she was being made to share a room with her father and uncle, despite informing them both, "We can afford separate rooms you know."

"This is how we do it," Dean had said simply, ending the conversation before it ever began.

Hunting was their territory, she was just along for the ride.

Still, she had, initially, moped about the lack of privacy, purposely leaving her _lady things_ out on the bathroom counter, bras and underwear strewn across her bed for all to see, punishment for not getting her way, a tiny passive-aggressive attack taken despite her knowing full well it was a losing battle.

But in the end, it didn't really matter, only spending two nights in the cramped motel room, the second of which, after wearing herself out _trying_ to dig up a body, not even registering as an embarrassment through the exhausted haze.

It's this night that she wakes, so late it seems almost sacreligious to have her eyes open, slowly pulled from sleep by the familiar low rumble of her father's voice, the forced silence of her uncle's breaths.

"You understand," Sam's saying, words slowly taking form in her mind as they filter through her ears. "I know you understand."

"Sam," Dean sighs, but before he can finish his thought, whatever it may be, he's cut off by his brother's heady words.

"People dying suddenly, unexpectedly, violently…I can't do it anymore. Digging that girl up tonight," he pauses, takes a deep breath, and when he goes on his voice sounds thick and ragged. "All I could think is…I don't know…where is she? Is she okay? Is she at peace?"

Despite the relatively slow pace of her sleep stained mind, it takes Rachel no time at all to figure out what he means, who he's talking about.

"She was cremated," Dean says quietly, solemnly.

"That's not…"

"I know."

"I can't do it, Dean. I can't do it anymore, any of it. I don't want to hunt down ghosts, I don't want to burn bodies, I sure as hell don't want to even _talk_ about demons. I can't."

The room falls into silence for several long moments, the new quiet pocked only by the whoosh of the small heater lulling her back into a light sleep. She almost doesn't hear her uncle say, voice more unsteady than she can ever recall it being, "What was in her journal?"

Demons. Ghosts. It was only a matter of time before it came to this, only a matter time before this thing they had done for so long, this bizarre life they'd tried so hard to leave behind, make only into a weekend endeavor, started up again as an odd means of escape, would lead them back to Maya.

"Nothing," he responds shortly, an obvious lie.

"Then why'd you burn it?"

"I told you," he says with a sigh, "I couldn't have it around."

"Why not?" he presses.

"Because I couldn't."

"Why the _fuck_ not, Sam?"

He doesn't respond, doesn't say a word. Rachel works to steady her breathing, remain undetected as her body pulls itself from sleep.

When he does speak again, she's amazed to hear what sounds like the truth. "She saw things she never should have seen," he says, tears evident in his voice. "I think…I think, maybe, she saw herself…doing things she shouldn't have been doing…never would do. Never."

Even without observing them herself, slumber being easier to feign when facing a wall, preventing her eyes from accidentally opening on them, she knows how they look now. Slumped. Beaten.

Her father, undoubtedly, is slouched over himself, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. This is how he always appears when too much weighs on his shoulders. He crumples beneath the pressure, as though if he could only make himself _smaller_, fold his huge frame in, curl up into near nothingness, then maybe the pain and frustration would just roll off his rounded back, unable to find a way to seep back in.

And Dean, still staunch in his own way, remaining straight despite mirroring his brother's curled posture. His face is hard, in a way that hides what he really feels, what he really thinks. Hides it even, perhaps, from himself.

The silence is overwhelming, and if it's that bad for her, it must be nearly unbearable for her uncle. She hears him shift in his seat and can't help but wonder if he does so because he needs to move, or simply to cure his ears of that foreboding ringing.

"What did it say, Sam?" he asks, low and rumbling.

He lets out a long sigh. "There was something about Rachel," he says, words quick, almost casual. And she can actually _feel_ her ears stretching and perking to hear better. "And blood."

"What does that mean?" Dean asks, confusion pocking his voice. "What did the journal say?"

"It said she…Maya…killed her. I think."

Rachel stiffens in place, surprised not nearly as much by the revelation as her utter _shock_ at the revelation. Of course there was reason. There had to be a reason. She had been trying to prevent something, that much she'd suspected all along. Either that or she was simply trying to run away from it.

"You think?"

"I don't know. I mean, I know what she wrote, what she dreamed." He sighs, puts on, she's certain, a silent shrug. "I don't know."

A chair creeks as someone rises too quickly, the soft and subtle sound of synthetic carpeting squishing under heavy soled feet echoing in the room. Dean's pacing, she knows this simply because she knows him. He's pacing and thinking and dreading all at once.

When he stops moving, silence again pervading the small room, an awful sort of stillness creeps around her, as though she knows what he's about to say, and it sets her body shuddering. "That's why she did it," he almost whispers. "She didn't want to…she couldn't let that happen." There's almost a hint of glee buried among the sorrow in his words when he repeats, "That's why she did it."

"Maybe," Sam utters.

His voice is loud when he turns to his brother, loud enough that it would have easily woken her had she actually been asleep. "How the hell could you not tell me this?!"

Her father nearly shrieks, "Dean," in an attempted chide, and she can feel his eyes on her back, willing her to stay down, stay asleep, stay out of it.

"All these months, we're wondering, thinking the worst, thinking…God, Sam." He's pacing again, words loud enough that she'd feel ridiculous not beginning to stir, like an utter liar. "_Why did she do it?_" he growls. "_Why?_" By the time he says, "And this whole time, you _knew_," she's sitting up, turned to face them.

"Not the whole time," Sam says, calm and concise, answering his brother, but staring straight into his daughter's eyes.

And while it seems ludicrous that he wouldn't have known he'd waken her, when Dean tosses a glance over his shoulder to see her sitting there, a flash of surprise takes over his features. But it only lasts a moment, barely even that. Then he turns back to Sam and says, more vehemently than either of them had ever heard him speak, "You should have told me."

* * *

"It was a dream," her father says, voice oddly steady. "You know how they are." He lets out a slight laugh, bitter and sardonic, before correcting himself. "No, I guess you don't know actually. But they're…confusing. Some things you know are real…others, you don't. She wrote down the dream. That's what the journal was for. Doesn't mean it really…well, in a lot of ways, it was just that, a dream."

She nods her head, squints out at the rising sun over the parking lot.

"It's not because of you."

But she knows better, because she's smart and not entirely oblivious. Because she's a Winchester.

Her father brought her out here, early morning chill still striking at their bones despite the hot coffee warming their insides, to talk. In private. About a family secret that had been kept long enough, one that really should have been kept even longer.

It's nice, she thinks, that he's willing to tell her, though it likely wouldn't be the case had she not already heard. Still, the way he speaks, honest and forthright and without too much preface, the hardest thing for a lawyer to master, makes her feel like an adult. Like an equal.

But she knows better than to think that he's being _truly_ honest with her. She knows better than to think that this little secret spilled, so conveniently to her uncle, by accident to her, is the deepest and darkest family secret they have, the deepest and darkest one that _Maya_ had.

She knows better because she's smart and not entirely oblivious. Because she's a Winchester.


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Still own nothing.**

**Author's Note: I feel like I owe you all so much more than this rather short and dinky little chapter, but too bad it's all you get. Ugh, I'm trying, I swear...that stupid muse just doesn't seem to want to hang around much anymore. But I promise, I'm _trying_.**

* * *

_  
_

_"Why don't I have any grandmas?" she asks simply, pulling her little girl body up__ and__ into his lap._

_She's been asking questions lately, too many questions, and though he can vaguely recall this particular stage from when Rachel went through it, partly remember__s__ how difficult and irksome it had been with her, he can't for the life of him remember how he de__a__lt with it or how long it had lasted._

_"Dad," she draws out, annoyed by his silence, as she paws at his chest with her tiny hands. "Why?"_

_He looks down at his youngest daughter, all dark hair and dark eyes, wide pink lips set in a stern line as she awaits his response. He gazes deeply at her and says, "I don't know,"__ soft and sullen, an unrealized__ lie._

The dreams, he'd thought they'd gone away completely, forever. Even before Maya's death they had dwindled and nearly stopped all together. The mere fact that he had no vision or inkling even of what was to come in those days, hours, prior to his daughter's suicide had cemented within him the idea that his awful gift was gone for good.

But lately…lately they've been back. Different, no longer migraine inducing, mind numbing visions, or odd snippets of things to come. Now they were simply dreams, memories of times long ago forgotten, memories of Maya being the child he adored instead of the one he would forever mourn. Memories that, he was sure, were triggered by more than just some sort of grieving process, some deeply buried, subconscious need to see his daughter.

It's one memory in particular, one dream that continues to occur that cements this idea in his head.

"I don't know," she says, shuffling her feet nervously, directing her eyes across the room rather than at him.

"It means something though, right?" he asks, a hint of childlike hope to his voice. "Like she's…here, trying to tell me something."

Ava merely shrugs.

"What?" he asks, studying her almost pained expression. "What?" more annoyed than imploring.

She shakes her head slowly before finally turning to look at him. "Sam, it's just a dream."

"I know that. But it's a dream I keep having. It has to mean something." He rises from the unmade bed, turning his back on his sister-in-law as he says, "All this has to mean _something_."

She pulls the sheet tighter around her, wraps it round her frame as she too stands. "Maybe it's just because you're so used to dreams having some kind of deeper meaning, because they used to…for you and me, and Maya. But things are different now, you know?" She moves across the room, harsh berber hotel carpeting scraping at her soles, and lays her hand on his shoulder, her head against his back. "Maybe it's time to stop looking for meaning in everything," she whispers into his flesh.

"I don't think I can do that," he mutters harshly before pulling away and quickly dressing.

_"Why don't you know?" she asks pointedly, even at nearly four, she's tenacious and quick t__o see through lies and condescension_

_"Well," he starts, unsure of where to go. "Well, technically you have grandmas, two of them. It's just, neither of them are here."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Because they're both," he catches himself sharply, stumbles over the word dead and sputters out, "gone," instead._

_"Gone where?"_

_"Gone to Heaven," he says, words falling from his lips before he even realizes they're forming in his mind. She quiets for a moment, drops her inscrutable gaze, and he pulls her closer to him, takes in her sweet scent of innocence, and tells himself that any lie is worth a feeling like this._

He hasn't talked to Dean much lately, not since their most recent and most definitely _final_ hunting trip a few months back. Part of him is still angry at his brother for blowing up at him, inadvertently informing his daughter of a secret he would have gladly kept from her all his life.

Part of him is furious, madder than he ever thought he could be with Dean, at those words he had spewed in his direction, _"You should have told me."_ As though he'd done him some sort of disservice in trying to keep a truth his other daughter had died protecting, died to prevent, from being shared and known by all.

Mostly though, mostly he hasn't talked to Dean lately because he can't stand to look him in the eye.

And so, when he has the dream again, for the sixth time inside of two months, he wants to call Dean, talk to his brother about their mother, about his daughter, about anything that will remind him of who he is – not the jilted husband, but the loving brother – and who they, together, once were – a team united against everyone and everything else, since no one but the other could be trusted.

He wants to tell him that he thinks he knows what the dream means, at least in part. That he thinks, somehow, there's a connection between their mother's death and Maya's. That the connection they all seem to have with the yellow eyed demon, with evil in general, began with Mary and not him. He wants to tell him of the dream he had long ago in that tiny old western town Azazel had taken him to, where he saw his mother, their mother, look at the pair of glowing eyes in the dark of his nursery with unmistakable recognition.

But he can't say anything to Dean, not now, not while he's busy lying beside _his_ wife, trying desperately to fall asleep as she strokes his back, hoping endlessly that once he does he'll have that dream of his little girl on his lap, snuggled tight against him. That dream where his little girl rises from her ashes and whispers to him through erstwhile memories. _Why don't I have grandmas? Why don't you know?_

That dream that only comes when he lies spent and broken and guilty after fucking his brother's wife.

_"Where is Heaven?" she asks gently, never pulling her head away from his chest._

_"I'm not really sure."_

_"Can I go there?"_

_He shifts uncomfortably, not wanting to say no, not able to say yes. "Maybe, one day."_

_"Aunt Ava said that Murphy's in Heaven. Doggy Heaven. Is that different?"_

_"A little," he says with a crooked smile as he begins to rock his girl back and forth. "Not really, though."_

_Her voice is heavy and light all at once, sleepy. "She said that if you're good you go to Heaven."_

_He feels her body slump__ a bit more, one missed nap__ taking its toll, and he says, still slowly rocking, "That sounds about right."_

_Her breaths fall into a steady, thick rhythm and he knows she's asleep, gone to the world, so he __picks__ her up in that easy way – toddler bodies being just light enough to carry, big enough that he doesn't fear them slipping through his too large hold – and crosses the room to lay her in bed._

_Rachel claims she's too big to be tucked in, and with how independent Maya is already, how much more so she becomes every day, he knows it won't be too much longer 'til this li__ttle ritual is outgrown. So he__ takes his time in pulling the covers around her, takes care in finding just the right __stuffed toy to fold into her sleepy embrace_

_It's not until he's almost out the door, that he hears her stir, turns to look at her curled form in the dark, and sees, by the barely there glow of the light filtering in from the hall, Maya's __large round eyes look__ing __up __at him. _

_"What is it, baby?" he asks softly._

_She cocks her head at him, gaze unwavering as she says, words careful and drawn__ and entirely unfamiliar__"Not everyone who'__s gone is gone to Heaven, Daddy. Some of us go…somewhere else."_

He wakes in a cold sweat, feeling spent and dirty and scared.

He cries in the shower, huge wracking sobs the likes of which he's never felt before, keeping him from even feeling the pulse of the water.

And he cries on the drive home, ragged breaths blanketing over the sounds of his cell as Ava keeps desperately calling, dialing and redialing.

And he cries, words barely decipherable through the tears, as he lays his head in his wife's lap and spills all his secrets, all at once. All too much for him to bear.


	8. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: **Umm, yeah, it's been a while. Sorry 'bout that.

**Disclaimer: **Still own nothing.

* * *

He's not sure how he got here, not sure, really, how any of them got here, to this point, but definitely not sure how _he_ got _here_, parked in Sam's driveway in the middle of the day, just debating what to do next.

Wait. That's all it seemed like Dean was capable of doing these days. When Sarah showed up on his doorstep a couple weeks ago with a barely controlled countenance and red rimmed eyes, he had to _wait_ until she was ready to spill, _wait_ until she was done telling her story. _Wait_ until she backed out the driveway to call his wife and tell her to get her ass home.

Once she arrived, he had to _wait_ until his voice, hands, entire body, stopped shaking before confronting her. And for whatever reason, he found himself waiting, he's _still_ waiting in fact, for her to explain, or deny, or spawn black possessed eyes. He had to wait until she got her breath back, sobs and hitches ceasing enough for her to hear, to understand him when he said, "Get out."

He had to wait for her to pack some things. He had to wait for John and Michael to get home from school. He had to wait for words, any possible combination of words, to come to him so as to explain to his boys why their mother wasn't coming home. He had to wait and ruminate all over again as John went to get Samantha from ballet so he could do the same for her.

And for the past two weeks he'd been waiting, waiting, waiting for his brother to…do…something.

It really shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anyone, this was Dean, this was how he was. He had to wait for his dad to tell him where to go, what to do on hunts, in life. He found himself waiting for Sam to see the errors of his ways and come home, back to him, from Stanford all those years ago. Hell, he waited until Sam married Sarah before he even thought to settle down with Ava, didn't even allow himself to think about kids until his nieces came into the word, proving it was possible.

For all the accusations Sam used to fling at him about not thinking first, always jumping in without a plan, the reality was, Dean didn't even know _how_ to jump right into the big stuff. The most spontaneous thing he'd ever done, the _only_ thing he'd ever really done without any direction, was going to find Sam and dragging him on the road in search of Dad.

Sometimes he thinks, if he hadn't done that, he'd still be waiting for his baby brother to come back into his life.

Sometimes he wonders if it would have been better that way.

The house seems still, quiet, a somber note to the air as he steps out of the truck. His eyes wander across the front lawn as the ghosts of years past flit through his subconscious. Rachel riding her tricycle through the wet grass, working thick muddy tracks in loops throughout the yard. Maya dribbling a soccer ball, starting over, not with frustration, but pure concentration, after every drop. John running through the automatic sprinklers at five in the morning, wearing nothing but a diaper and a smile. Michael ramming his pink helmeted head into the thick trunk of the old oak tree. Sammy laying on her back, quietly counting stars, seemingly unfazed by all the fireworks exploding in her periphery. Sam and Sarah sharing a quick kiss goodbye on their way to work in the morning.



It's too quiet now, more mournful than a graveyard, and if there's one thing Dean Winchester knows anything about it's graveyards.

If there were only one other thing, it would probably be mourning.

There's barely a noise made when the door slowly swings open, long before he's even made it all the way up the walk. Sam doesn't say a word as he holds it open, waiting for his brother to approach.

"Didn't think you'd be home," Dean says, his clear and casual words surprising even himself.

"Yeah," Sam mutters, still standing in the door, eyes cast down at his feet. It takes him a moment, one long and painful moment, to look up and connect with Dean's hard stare. "Do you," he begins nervously, "you want to…come in?"

It occurs to Dean that it's the first time he's ever been asked that by his brother, and for some reason the mere idea that he should have to be invited into this house that seems so much like his own infuriates him even more than the idea that Sam fucked his wife. But he controls himself enough to utter a simple, "Yeah," and push past.

He's nearly into the kitchen, old routines being hard to break, when he hears, barely a squeak, "Dean." But he doesn't turn around, moving on in search of coffee or a beer or anything the kitchen might provide to keep his hands busy so that they don't turn on him and do what, at his core, he longs to do. Another, "Dean," is muttered from behind, but he's already stopped short, eyes gone wide at the sight in front of him.

The kitchen's a wreck, and not the normal kind of, 'I've been so busy I haven't had time to do the dishes or tidy up' wreck. It was more like an earthquake rolled through and disaster relief hadn't made it this far out yet. He can't help himself, as much as he doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know, doesn't want to _care_, the words fall from his mouth regardless. "What the hell happened?"

Sam lumbers by him, still refusing to make any sort of eye contact that might last for more than a fraction of a second, and bends down to begin picking up shards of broken china. "Uh, nothing."

"Sarah?" he inquires, assuming the obvious. After all, she may have chosen not to leave, or kick Sam out, she may have said that they could make things work, _work_ to make things work, but she was still a jilted wife and had every right to throw a few dishes.

But, "No…uh…I just…had a bad morning. I guess."

"A bad morning?" he asks incredulously, turning to look at his brother.

Sam sighs heavily, and even with his back to Dean, body hunched, it's obvious that that merely breathing for him is exhausting. He stifles a groan while rising to stand, takes time to scrub his palms over his face before answering. "Sometimes a person just has to…break something."



Dean smirks despite himself, nods and shoots out amid disdain, "Yeah, I'll bet." Which manages to get Sam to turn on his heel, the fastest movement he's seen him make so far. "What?" he asks, locking onto his brother's weak stare. Then, with more animosity, more insistence, "What?"

"I never wanted to hurt you," he says, nearly choking on tears.

Dean looks away, shakes his head. "Don't do that," he bites. "Don't you dare cry like some big fucking baby. And don't say…just don't."

Sam wipes vigorously at his eyes with the back of his hand, "Sorry, I'm sorry," coming out in a faint murmur.

"And don't say you're sorry."

"Okay."

"And don't say okay!" he booms. "Nothing is okay!" Sam shrinks against the counter, eyes aimed once more towards the floor, gray tinged hair hanging down in his face, obscuring any semblance of expression. Dean stares at him for one long moment, willing him to move. "Well, say _something_!" he screams when he doesn't.

And here's the rub, the crux of the matter, the greatest _pain_ involved. He's known those sad puppy eyes all his life, known them when they flitted in his direction as a means of begging, when they desperately glared at him, pleading. When they stared off at nothing, mourning. For nearly 47 years his little brother has been able to guilt, manipulate, and simply break him, break his heart, with those eyes. So why should it be any different now?

He looks over to Dean, gaze saying everything and nothing at all. "I can't."

So he hits him. Hard. Open fisted, backhanded, like a freakin' girl, hits him square in the jaw. His feet carry him forward in two long strides, too fast for him to even think about what he was planning to do, if he was planning anything at all. And the worst part of it all, Sam doesn't even flinch. He flew at him and slapped him like a chick, and he doesn't even flinch.

He falls back, tense fingers ripping through his hair as he turns around and shuts his eyes tight, tries to think. And there's another thing he seems to have been doing far too much of lately, thinking. Thinking about what his next move should be. Thinking how to best handle every situation. Thinking about what to say, what to do, how to _fix_ this.

But no actions seem particularly plausible, and no words come to mind. Yet he hears his voice, slow and pained and soft, "You're my brother." Accusing? Reassuring? "You're my brother." Even he doesn't know.

The response he gets is more than unexpected, and more than just a little bit frightening. Sam breaks into an odd deep chuckle, a sardonic, almost maniacal laugh the likes of which Dean's never heard come out of his brother. Not even when he was at his most despondent. Not even when he was demon 

possessed. He cackles, seemingly to himself, and says, head absently shaking, "I don't know _what_ I am anymore."

And it doesn't come as a shock, there's no supreme eye opening moment where Dean suddenly realizes that his little brother is so broken, so far gone…there's no sort of epiphany or light bulb moment. Because, really, he's known all along.

"You're my brother," he repeats, barely a whisper, as an odd sort of calm filters through him.

Sam shakes his head, the laughter gone. "What I did to you…"

"Yeah," he mutters, only partially aware of what he had said, mind so lost in memories, so busy scanning all the _but-for_'s and _what-if_'s of late. "Yeah," he repeats, a melancholic affirmation of guilt, of ultimate culpability. Because this has been coming for a long time, building steadily over the years, and all he's ever done is ignore it and hope it'll go away.

Sam grew up without a mom, had a shit relationship with Dad, worked his ass off to make something of himself, other than a second generation hunter, and what did Dean do through it all? He fed him Funions and put Nair in his shampoo. He sided with Dad at every turn, shunned Sam when he went to school, did everything he could to keep from telling him how proud he was just to avoid an uncomfortable chick-flick moment.

Sam decided to settle down with Sarah, go on to law school, have a real life, and what did Dean do? He laughed at him, called him a pansy-ass, dragged him out whenever he could on weekend hunts, just so he could have some time alone with him, some time where it was just them again, with no wives or kids or worries. Only Sam didn't function like that, and when he was away from home, he only worried more.

Maya caught the psychic bug, and Dean called Bobby and avoided any mention of dreams like the plague. Avoided his niece, at least at times, too many times, like the fucking plague.

Maya _died_. And Dean didn't do anything. He listened to Sam when in his state of grief he said to leave it alone, not find some way of bringing her back or trading souls or any of the other things that had gotten them into so much trouble in the past. He didn't encourage Sam to talk, not about anything, the way he was feeling, or the way his life had changed, simply because he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to reminisce about her, and he sure as hell didn't want to sit there and listen to how sad and guilty Sam felt. Throughout the last six months he hasn't done _anything_ at all to help his brother, and look where that's gotten them all.

He was supposed to protect him, keep him safe, raise him right. And he's tried, God knows he's tried. But maybe there's more to that than simply being willing to trade your life and soul. Maybe dying for someone is just an easy out, so much easier than living for him. Maybe he's been going about this all wrong for too, too long.

So he says it, without even thinking, he says, mournful and sincere, "Talk to me, Sam."



And for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually does.


	9. Chapter 8

Author's Note: A bit of a break from the intensity of late.

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

* * *

"I mean," she slurs, interrupting herself to down another shot, "how fucked up, right? Yeah?"

The man next to her, dark hair, dark eyes, the most painfully perfect olive skin, smiles that smile – _that_ smile – and says with that voice – _that_ voice, "Family's a bitch, eh?"

_You have no idea_, she thinks, intends to say, though it somehow comes out as, "You'se no dear."

"No," he chuckles, as though he actually understands her. "Maybe I don't," as though he knows exactly what's going through her head.

He touches her hand, weaves their fingers together, uses the pad of his thumb to swipe slow subtle circles into her flesh. And she feels a tingle dance along her spine, a buzzing permeating her ears that she knows, just _knows_, is not due to the liquor.

"I like you," she mutters, lids drooping lazily as her head falls to his shoulder.

He leans down and whispers to her, "Let's get out of here," words like candy, sweet and rich and melting into her subconscious.

* * *

She doesn't wake until late afternoon the following day, and by then he's long gone, nothing but a note on the pillow beside her to prove that it was more than just a dream._ Tonight. Tomorrow. Forever._

She's exhausted, but also ecstatic, an odd sort of restless and joyous energy burning through her limbs. The whole way to her uncle's house she can't stop smiling, can't stop yawning, can't stop thinking about how her skin felt when he touched her, how her body swooned when he pressed himself into her, how…

"Where've you been?" interrupts her thoughts, so consuming she hadn't even realized that she'd arrived and entered Dean's house. She stifles a yawn as he yells up the stairs to Samantha, turns back around and asks with a smirk, "Late night?"

She grins at him, all dreamy, goofy, and doesn't seem to notice when his smile fades into a suspicious scowl. "Forget it," he says turning his back on her. "I don't want to know."

She does her best not to think about him, not to think about the two of them together, and focus solely on Sammy and there grand-fun-girly-day. They get manicures, Samantha talking a mile a minute to both her and the barely English speaking manicurist about school and ballet and a couple of boys who are totally in love with her but there's no way she'd be interested because they're just _boys_. Rachel catches some of it, but for the most part she's lost in a ghostly sensation prickling at her fingers, a reminiscent glide of flesh on flesh that the Vietnamese chatterbox seems to be trying to scrub away.

They go get smoothies, blackberry for her, strawberry-banana for Sammy, and once again she tries to get the calm, sweet fog to roll out of her head. Especially once Samantha brings up her last weekend with her mother and how "weird and…I don't know…wrong" it was. But with the tangy cool shock of smoothie on her tongue, she's reminded of how hot and thick his breath was as he whispered into her 

mouth. When the sweet treat rolls down the back of her throat, all she feels is the sensation of his warm saliva slipping down into her.

By the time they reach her parents' house for supper, Samantha bounding quickly ahead of her into the kitchen to help Sarah, she's completely exhausted from _trying_ so damn hard. She collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, doesn't even realize how distracted and perplexed she must look until she feels the hot sensation of prodding eyes on her.

"What?" she asks, looking over at her mother, taking in her coy expression.

"You tell me," she replies with piqued curiosity.

And Rachel knows she can't hide anything from her mother, not really, not something like this. So, "I met someone," she says, rather bluntly, raising her brows in invitation for Sarah to respond.

For a moment, seeing her daughter, dare she say, _content_, with an odd and almost unrecognizable sparkle to her eye, it's all she can do to stand and stare, mouth agape. "Okay." Sarah wipes off her hands and goes to sit down at the table beside Rache, shoots her a cautious look before saying, delicately, less even _she_ get too excited, "Tell me more."

"Well," she starts, straightening her shoulders and flipping her long hair back, eager smile perking the sides of her mouth. "He's handsome, gorgeous really. And polite. Oh and he totally _listens_ to me, you know?"

Sarah nods. "That can be hard to find in a man," she says with an airy quality. "Where'd you meet?"

Rachel takes in a deep breath in preparation for motherly disapproval. "At a bar." Then, before Sarah can utter a word, she rushes out, "But he's not like most of the guys you meet at bars, you know? I mean, for one, there was no cheesy pick up line or anything. And he didn't just buy me one drink and then expect me to sleep with him or anything. He ran up a pretty hefty tab for me."

"And then expected you to sleep with him?" she asks with raised brow and disdain in her voice.

Rachel simply rolls her eyes. "Yes, Mom, then he expected me to sleep with him and we went and did it in the men's room."

"Rachel," she nearly shrieks, tossing a glance over at Sammy's back.

Rache snorts indignantly, "Please, have you forgotten who her father is? Like she doesn't hear quips like that all the time."

Without even looking up from her carrot chopping, Sammy nods emphatically, "All the time," coming in sing-song from her nine-year-old lips.

"You do not," Sarah spits out, more than certain that if there's one person even the too-crude Dean would censor himself in front of, it would be his daughter.



"Maybe not from Daddy, but Michael and I talk about sex all the time," she says with a nonchalant roll of the shoulders as she reaches for more veggies.

Rachel glances at her confusedly. "Michael's having sex?"

"I didn't say he was having sex, I said we talk about it."

Sarah shuts her eyes tight, shakes her head back and forth and repeats, "You do not," followed by, "And stop saying _sex_. I don't want to hear you say _sex_."

"It's not a dirty word, Aunt Sarah," she intones with far too much authority.

Rachel, ignoring her mother's plight completely, turns back to Sammy. "He doesn't really talk to you about it, does he?"

She shrugs. "He talked to me about not spying on John when his girlfriend's over, and not hiding in his closet when they're having sex."

Rachel's eyes grow even wider. "John's having sex?"

"Stop saying sex!" Sarah screams, the whole room slipping into an eerie silence as all faces turn to her. She sees Samantha glance up at something over her shoulder, turns to see Sam frozen in his tracks at the threshold to the kitchen.

His eyes flash back and forth between all the women in front of him before he says, slowly, delicately, "What are we talking about?"

Only to be met with, in stereo from both Sammy and Rachel, "Sex."

"Okay," he says simply, turning on a heel and heading back up the stairs, eager to get as far away from them as possible.

Sarah waits until he's gone before letting out a dramatic sigh. "Samantha," she says without looking up, "you can't…spy on your brother like that."

"Believe me," she enthuses, turning back to her carrots, "I learned that one the hard way. You know how long I was trapped in that closet?"

Rachel smirks. "So the kid's got some stamina, huh?" earning her a confused glance from Sammy and a disgusted glare from her mother.

"And, Rachel," Sarah begins, eyes steadily transfixed on her daughter, "You can't sleep with someone you just met."

"Why not?" comes in a quizzical tone from the little girl at the counter.

"Because," she responds, rather horrified, "you can't."



Rachel turns to her cousin, face suddenly very serious. "It's dangerous. He could have diseases, or you could get pregnant. Or your self-esteem could vastly diminish upon realizing that he simply used you to fulfill some sort of vapid, masochistic fantasy and he has no intention of ever calling you again, not even to just say _thank you_, let alone take you out and actually, oh, I don't know, _pay_ for dinner."

"Been there before, Rache?" Sarah inquires smugly.

"This, however," she directs at her mother, "was different. He's different."

"So you slept with him," she says, barely a statement, yet not quite a question.

Rachel laughs uncomfortably. "I am not telling you anything more."

"Oh, come on" she says, tossing the words casually over her shoulder as she rises and returns to the counter to check her niece's progress. "You won't tell me _anything_ more?"

"Mom," she issues out, more a whine than a warning.

"You could at least tell me," she glances at Sammy before correcting, "tell _us_, his name."

She opens her mouth to respond, ready to give her mother just that much, only to realize with a sharp shock of embarrassment that, "I don't really know."

* * *

After dropping her cousin off at home she heads back to the bar where she met him the night before, hoping he'll be there. But he's not. And no one there seems to remember him at all, not the bartender, who, granted, was swamped last night, so she'll forgive for not paying close attention to her and her date. And not the two obnoxious townies that frequent the bar, hit on her every time she's been in. Not the waitress, whom, she admits, she doesn't even remember seeing last night. Not anyone at all.

So she goes home, lies in bed for what seems like hours, trying to put the pieces together. Because she knows he was real, very, _very_ real. And she doesn't think she's gone crazy. But still, a few hours ago she had been wondering if he was the man of her dreams, not even realizing that she didn't know his name, didn't have his number and, to be quite honest, wasn't sure if she'd offered either up to him either. So she must be crazy, if she could feel that sort of connection with someone and never even ask, she must be certifiable.

She doesn't even remember falling asleep, lying prone and half naked on top of her bare mattress, as all the bedclothes had been kicked off out of sheer frustration. But she's sure she must have because when she does finally see him, a dark shadow at the foot of her bed, it's through a haze of sleep-stained eyes and a slow moving mind. Perhaps that's why, instead of inquiring as to how he got into her apartment, or who the hell he is, she says only, "Took you long enough," as she spreads out and arches into him.

* * *



In the light of day it's clear enough to see, even if she doesn't want to – the vague impressions of his fingers around her arms, the tight, dry feel of her skin at the base of her neck where his salty saliva dried – that this little affair is far from normal. She combs through books, Googles every possible option, all the while feeling his hands on her thighs, his fingers in her hair.

A couple hours into her research she slams the laptop shut and rises, too quickly to bound out the door. But she has to move fast, because every moment she stills she inevitably feels his tongue trace along her teeth, or his thumb slide along her nipple, or his…so she bolts before having to prune up in an ice cold shower for the umpteenth time today.

There's only one place to go, and she's not too happy about it, but the alternative is even worse. Having been on only a few hunts, she can hardly call herself a _hunter_, certainly can't inquire within the sort of network her father and uncle have belonged to. It's really just them, just the two of them, and there's no way in hell she's going to discuss this with her dad.

"What's up, pup?" Dean asks, more chipper than she's seen him in quite some time.

She enters into the house and takes in the near silence, only traces of what sounds like Metallica filtering in through the door to the garage. "Everyone's gone?" she asks simply, speaking of the kids.

He nods, "With their mom," and wipes his hands on a grease-stained rag

She notices, just as she's noticed repeatedly over the last month and half, how he conveniently forgoes using Ava's name, but just as before, she doesn't address it. "Working on the car?" she inquires, as if there was any doubt.

He turns and heads back out to the garage, fully aware that she'll follow. "Yep," dripping from his lips in one, almost joyous syllable. She nods as she follows, forgetting her own plight momentarily and soaking up her uncle's good mood. "So," he says, bending under the hood of the Impala, waiting for a response.

She traces a single fingertip over the shiny black paint, "I can't believe you still have this. It's gotta be ancient."

He glares up at her, wrench in hand. "_Classic_, Rachel. Not ancient, _classic_."

"Oh," she mocks, "sorry. Does it even still run?"

He pulls himself away from the engine, straightens haughtily and says, more than a bit affronted, "Of course she still runs." Then, ducking back beneath the hood, barely audibly, he mutters, "Not at the moment, maybe, but when I'm done she will."

"Ah," she begins while wandering through the garage, "good to know."

His words are gruff and muffled from inside the car. "Did you need something?"

And she wrinkles her nose for a moment, debating on how best to approach the subject. "What do you know about incubus?"



He breaks out of humming along to the music just long enough to say, "The band?"

"There's a band called Incubus?"

He shakes his head mournfully, mutters a, "Man, I'm so old," and trudges on with, "You mean the demon? The one that seduces you and sucks you dry?" She nods. "A little, why?"

"What does that mean, exactly, suck you dry?" she asks, despite already knowing the answer.

"Means they suck the life out of ya. I don't know," he mumbles, clearly preoccupied with whatever it is he's…wrenching. "They, uh, absorb your life force, or something."

"That sucks," she deadpans with a yawn.

He shoots her a smirk, "Exactly," before falling back into rhythm with both the music and his work.

"So what do you…do about that?" she asks with faux innocence.

"Exorcism usually. It's a demon, so…why, you hear of one somewhere?" he perks up at the prospect of a hunt.

"Not exactly," she shrugs. "So you wouldn't kill him? I mean, you don't have to do that?"

"I don't know if you can." He bends back down, furrowing his brow. "Ask your dad, he's the egghead in the family."

She laughs a bit before saying, "Yeah, right, like I'm gonna go and tell him that I'm being sexed and suckled by a demon."

An odd sounding, "Wha –" is all Dean manages to get out before flying up so fast and hard that his head actually bounces off the hood of the car. "Son of a bitch!" he screeches in pain, stumbling back.

"Sorry," she exclaims, moving in to help her injured uncle. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that, you know, while you were under there, like that. Sorry."

He grabs her arm, in part to steady himself, and in part to be sure he has her full attention when he says, "Tell me that's your idea of a stupid fucking joke."

It's so much a demand that she actually considers saying _yes, terrible joke, bad Rachel, so sorry_. But instead what comes out is, "I really like him," a statement that surprises even her.

Once his vision evens out, two Rachels being about two too many to handle right now, Dean manages to give her a look that's both perplexed and horrified. He straightens himself up, still faltering a bit and not quite ready to let go of her steadying arm, and says with the utmost sincerity, "Tell me you didn't sleep with him."

She backs off a bit, letting her uncle lean on the wall, before letting out an exasperated sigh. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"



"Rachel," he moans with frustration. "You're not that stupid. Are you that stupid?"

She shies away from his gaze. "You really want me to answer that?"

He almost growls as he shoves past her into the house, talking as goes, assuming she's following. "How many times? When? When and how many and…seriously?" he intones, spinning around and nearly knocking her over. "You're really that stupid?"

"I didn't know who he was at first, or…what he was. I still don't, not really. I mean, I assume. He's gotta be."

"Yeah?" he asks, needing clarification.

She slips into a sort of trance, memories of him flowing over her, into her. "The way he talked to me, the way he touched me," she begins, slow dreamy quality to her voice. "It was like he knew…everything, all the right things, and ways…" Her back arches a bit as she takes in a deep breath, lets out a near moan.

Dean cringes, an, "Oh God," absently falling from his lips.

"His fingers," she continues, eyes drifting shut, "moving along my – "

"Stop it!" He throws up both hands and stumbles back a step. "Rachel, Jesus…just stop it."

She takes in a deep cleansing breath, hands moving up to her face in an attempt to somehow wipe away the flush of her cheeks. "Sorry," she mutters, newly aware of the trembling of her legs.

"Look," he starts, turning to the freezer and pulling out some frozen peas for his head wound, "You're under a…a spell. Sort of. They do that."

She sits down at the table, legs too weak with desire to hold her upright. "Yeah, that explains it," she says, nodding. "Yeah, because, this…I mean I can't think of anything but –"

"Nnnn-nnnahh," he interrupts, hand flying up to ward off her words again. "Don't want to know. Don't _need_ to know. Just," he takes a deep breath, "just wait here, I'll get the ritual." He heads for the stairs, stopping suddenly and turning back to her to say, "Don't…do…anything. I just cleaned the kitchen." Which prompts such a roll of the eyes from his niece he almost thinks he can make out her optic nerve.

* * *

He offers to help, hoping the entire time that she turns him down, ensures him that she can handle this on her own. Because he really doesn't want to be there when this thing comes back. And she tells him it's not a problem, simple reading is all it takes, quick and easy, and the guy…or demon as the case may be…is gone. Incubi don't tend to be particularly violent. Sure they suck the life out of people, but they don't tend to rip them apart or anything, so she should be good.

She waits for him for hours, worn book laying open in her lap as her head bobs and nods with near sleep. By the time he shows up, she's sprawled out on the couch, book nowhere to be seen.

"Miss me?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her.

She smiles despite herself, lets him kiss her for one long unbelievable moment. Then, as though it had just occurred to her that this man in her apartment is a demon, she shoves him to the floor, shouting, "No!" in a fashion and volume that surprises even her.

He looks up at her, brows knitted together in absolute shock and confusion.

"Don't look at me like that," she nearly screams, jumping upright so that she's now standing on the couch, towering over his prone figure. "I know what you are."

He laughs that laugh, smiles that smile, and says, "And what am I?" with that voice that almost makes her melt away to nothing.

"You," she stumbles, legs trembling once more, will growing weak. "You're…"

"I'm," he prompts, rising and moving closer to her, running his hand up her shirt, fingers along her ribcage.

Her eyes fall shut as she bends into him, lets him gather her into his arms. "You're very, very…_bad_," she moans.

"Maybe I am," he tells her, breath hot in her ear. "But I think you like that."

She lets his words play over and over in her head as he leans her back into the plush cushions of the couch, presses himself into her. _I can't argue with that_, she thinks, figuring that just _one more time_ probably won't kill her. "Tomorrow," she mutters absently, cementing the plan in her mind. "Tomorrow."


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except my car...crap, I gotta go make a car payment.

* * *

He'd known her all his life, known her, he was certain, better than anyone else ever could have. He could sense both the subtle and dramatic shifts in her moods, feel it in his bones like an arthritic telling the weather. He could piece together all the hidden meanings in the words she spoke, fill in the blanks among the things gone unsaid, determine all that belied her bitter moods and fed her insecurities.

He knew she hated to read, words and letters too jumbled, too awkward, but loved to escape into a fictional world, spending hours daydreaming through classes and homework and serious discussions she'd no desire to have. He knew she pretended not to care about her grades because it made it that much easier to accept the inadequate marks she was sure would come anyway, no matter how hard she tried. And he knew, despite what it seemed, despite what so many saw, she always tried her damndest.

He knew she liked to dress up, without realizing or caring why, him having no real concept of how it can feel to be a girl longing to _look_ like a girl, though she'd constantly complain when being asked to, always muttering about being a T-shirt and sweats girl, a Hoodie Hottie, as Rachel dubbed her.

He knew her most favorite food ever was gingerbread cookies, but she never allowed herself to have them except at Christmas, saving and savoring their seasonal flavor.

He knew she felt most alive, not when running and blocking and kicking on the soccer field, but when engaged in fiery debate with either of their fathers.

He knew, though she'd never admit it, never in a million years, that she loved her sister best, looked up to her in ways that even _she_ didn't understand, longed to be near her even when the distance between them made it so difficult to do so.

He knew she wanted to be something, though always undecided in terms of what or who. She was made for more, felt it in her bones. She was built for greatness, and held onto that inherent knowledge even as bouts of low self-esteem, dwindling confidence, shook her faith.

He knew that the dreams she had scared the hell out of her, that even after having years to get used to them, even after learning to better control them, they always rattled her to the core.

He knew she had a gift, though the details she never shared. And he knew, despite no one in the family ever discussing it with him, or even around him, that everyone around her thought it a curse.

And he knew, no matter what anyone said, no matter if the police determined it to be a suicide because of her speed, the fact that she failed to break despite being stone-cold sober, or if Uncle Sam burned her journal because of some sort of incriminating, too much to bear goodbye, as he imagined it must have been, he knew that she did not want to die.

And all of this he knew without her ever telling him so, ever offering up any words or clues or helpful hints. He simply _knew_.

So imagine his shock and dismay at not being able to tell, not easily, inherently knowing what she was trying to tell him now.

* * *

"I don't want to go," she whines, tears glistening in her tired eyes.

John's tried, he really has, over the past several weeks he's done everything in his power to remain calm, sturdy, for his siblings. When the proverbial shit first hit the fan, Aunt Sarah coming over to _speak_ with Dean through long held sobs, working to keep him calm while the world around them both came clattering down. When the expected shouts and cries, threats and apologies between his parents failed to surface, an eerily horrifying _discussion_ taking its place. When his father said, simply and plainly, "Get out," one shaking finger pointed towards the door, red eyes skimming their way over everything but her face, stabilized only by his stony countenance. And when she turned, without arguing, without so much as casting a fleeting glance around the house where she raised her children, and left.

Through it all, John did not cry, or curse, or scream. He only stood, strong and tall, as he'd never been, a rock for Michael and Samantha.

Even now, when all he wants to do is agree with her, say, "I don't want to go either. I don't want to _see_ her either," he holds back. "Sammy," he says instead, kneeling down to her level, tilting her chin up to his, "It's mom," as though that should be enough to get her to give in.

They're all stubborn, according to his father, every Winchester ever born has been, to the outside world, the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch you'd ever meet. But the minute Dean walks into the room, slumped shoulders and a lying smile on his face, the lot of them buck up and grab their stuff to go. Because even little Sammy can see that arguing with her father now would just be cruel.

Ava takes them to breakfast, orders everyone pancakes just the way she knows they like them, apologizes over and over again for not being able to make them herself, they're always so much better homemade.

Michael doesn't eat, pushing food around his plate listlessly, remaining oddly cold and distant. Samantha doesn't speak, not until the end anyway, when Ava drops her at school and she bursts into tears for the umpteenth time, clinging and begging her to come home.

And John doesn't eat either, doesn't so much as utter a word himself aside from the well-taught, _please_ and _thank you_ and _goodbye_. But for him it's a different sort of silence, because as angry 

as he is with his mother, he can't help but be more concerned with other things. Like the bristling at his side in the booth at breakfast, or the foggy form taking shape in his periphery at every turn.

Maya. He's felt her for months, a looming presence like a phantom limb, coming and going ever since the day they burned her bones, as though ashes to ashes, dust to dust, weren't nearly as true as one might think. As though, if her death had freed her from this world, her cremation had somehow brought her back into it.

* * *

"What?" he snaps, eyes never leaving the computer screen in front of him.

Michael continues to lean in his brother's doorway, taught arms folded protectively across his chest, gaze boring into the side of his brother's head.

"What?" he says again, harsher than before, as he turns to face him.

Michael merely shrugs as he clomps into the room, taking the eye contact as some sort of invitation, and flops onto John's bed. Collapsed on his back, he lets out one long and labored sigh, nothing but melancholy silence to follow.

"Michael, I swear to God…"

"Do you think they'll ever talk to us about it?" he rushes out in one long breath, popping up into a sit.

John thinks for a moment, thinks about whether or not he even wants them to discuss this whole…mess with them. It's obvious they know, about the affair, about their father being heartbroken, their mother being listless, seemingly remorseful, and utterly absent. They know that Sam's still living at home, with Sarah, that she's existing in some sort of strange limbo of denial. They know – whether any of them want to believe it or not – they know that their family is broken. But the only response he can think to give, ironically enough, is, "I don't know."

"You think Aunt Sarah'll forgive him?" he asks, the simple fact that he can't say _Uncle Sam_ not being lost on John.

"I don't know."

"You think Dad will?"

He locks eyes with his brother briefly before shying away, gauging what exactly his question means. Would he forgive Uncle Sam? Or, would he forgive Mom? "I don't know," he replies, realizing that the answer's the same no matter the question.

"Okay," Michael says with a sigh as he rises from the bed and heads for the door. "You've been a big help. Thanks," dripping sarcasm as he disappears into the hall.

"You're welcome," John mumbles under his breath, a sardonic whisper directed more, seemingly, at his homework than anything.

_Some big brother you are_.

"Yeah, well…" he says aloud before even realizing who, or what he may be responding to. His eyes grow suddenly wide as he spins in his seat, taking in the entire room in a futile attempt to see something, someone, he knows isn't really there. "Maya," falls from his lips in barely a whisper.

And, _Maya_, is echoed back to him, an odd sort of voice inside his head that isn't his own.

* * *

It's nearly a week before he encounters her again, a blurry sheen in the corner of his eye. It's a week more before she _talks_ to him, buzzes through his brain like a fleeting thought. _See me_.

"I'm trying," he says, eyes bouncing around the empty kitchen. He's surpassed feeling crazy, long ago stopped caring about how ludicrous this all seems. He'll talk to himself and no one else for the rest of forever if there's even a chance that she'll answer him.

_Look, John. See me_.

"I can't," he ekes out. "Where?" in a near sob.

He used to be a crybaby, anyone would have said so. Maya made fun of him for it all the time. But standing slumped over the kitchen sink, tears clouding his vision, he can barely even remember the last time he cried, the whole act feeling foreign and wrong. The whole act sparking in him a memory of many months ago, standing slumped over a gravesite that contained nothing but ashes.

_See me._

He tries heading to the cemetery, wandering for close to an hour before finding her headstone, so new and shiny smooth. He whispers her name into the air, but gets no response. He calls out for her, a shrieking sort of sob that sounds nothing like him being howled into the night. But still, no answer.

_Maya_, on the wind as he drives home, windows down. _Maya_, on the tip of his tongue, two eagerly repeated syllables he doesn't even realize he's saying.

"Where were you?" Samantha asks as he trudges through the door. He doesn't answer, only makes his way upstairs, odd echoes of _see me, see me, seemeseemeseeme, _reverberating through his mind. "John," she yells, little feet beating a harsh rhythm on the stairs as she follows. "John!" again, loud enough for Dean to take notice of.

He makes it to his room just in time to see his father's door fly open, frantic eyes and demanding, "What?" drowning out the echo in his head.

Samantha's eyes are filled with tears, so delicately balanced, poised and ready to fall at any moment, when she says again, "Where were you?" And it's all he can do not to reach out and cradle her in his arms and cry right along with her.

"John," Dean repeats harshly, prodding for an answer. "You missed dinner," he continues when his son does nothing but stare at him, dumbfounded.

"Sorry," he mutters finally, turning quickly to duck into his room.

But Sammy darts underneath his arm, entering ahead of him and cementing herself in his way. She's barely anything at all, not even four feet of tiny pixie-like perfection. But there's something about the way she plants herself before him, strong and steady with a hand on one hip, face stern and unyielding despite the trembling lower lip and glistening green eyes. "Where were you?" she squeaks out, each word punctuated.

"Nowhere," he replies slowly, unsteadily. Because he can feel his father's eyes hot on his back. And his baby sister is, quite effectively, quite uncharacteristically, reading him the riot act. And his dead cousin's voice is sputtering in his ears.

_See me. Her. You. See. Maya. John. See!_

Samantha lets her hand fall, her head too, as she sobs out, "Don't lie! You could have been dead! You left and you weren't here and you might not have come back, and…where were you?!"

_Look, John. See. See me. Look. She…me…I need you._

It's all he can do to keep from screaming, 'Shut up!' poised on his tongue, directed who knows where.

"C'mere, baby," Dean mutters, already with Sammy in his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, even though John can't recall him shoving past. He picks her up, seemingly still so easy, as though little girls might fit in their daddies' arms no matter how old or heavy they become. "Come on," he whispers softly into her hair as he breezes past, turning to John only briefly to say, voice deep and firm, "I want to talk to you."

He knows he doesn't mean right this minute, knows he'll have at least a fifteen minute session with Sammy before her tears are dry and breath unhitched – knows that from experience. So he closes the door behind them and simply bides his time.

_Think about it, John_, sneaks up on his consciousness the minute he closes his eyes after falling to the bed. He remains absolutely, utterly still, halting even his breath, in the hopes of hearing better. _Think. Think. Think._

"Is this some kind of fucking joke?" he nearly screams, sitting bolt upright. And for a moment, he thinks he can hear her laugh. "Fuck you," he mumbles under his breath, leaning back into the pile of not-so-neatly folded clothes on his bed.

_John, see me._

"No," he breathes out, nothing but exhaustion in his voice. "No."

_See me._

He opens his eyes, focuses on the pure white ceiling. "I don't know what that means." And is met with silence, empty, painful silence. "Maya?" he whispers urgently. "Maya?"

"John?"

He flies up into a sit, nearly tumbling off his bed, barely catching himself, as his father stands at the door. "You could knock," he spits out, righting himself on the edge.

Dean cautiously enters the room, eyes flitting back and forth in search of…something. "I did," he says before sitting down next to his son. The two remain still and silent for one long moment, John stunned, almost embarrassed, Dean curious if not downright freaked out. He finally turns to him, narrowing his eyes, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

He shakes his head, a childlike, "No," rolling over his lips.

"Who were you talking to before?"

"No one," he rushes out, same voice he had as a little boy with something to hide.

Dean almost points that out, almost says something to the effect of, _You're a terrible liar_, but he knows that John's already more than aware of that. "Are you," he says instead, suddenly struggling with the words. "Are you…okay?"

"Are you asking if I'm going crazy?" he says, mostly sincere.

Dean lets loose an uncomfortable chuckle, shakes his head awkwardly. "No. Maybe." He takes in a deep breath, rises from the bed and glares assessingly down at his son. "Are you?"

John merely shrugs, looks away before saying, "I didn't mean to make Sammy cry."

"Yeah," Dean acknowledges. "Well, she's…upset."

"I know. She's been through a lot."

"So have you."

John glances up at his father, takes in his solemn and worried expression. Part of him wants to tell him all about Maya's presence, her voice in his head, her scent in the air, her misunderstood, 

unanswered appeals. Maybe he could help, maybe he'll know what she means. Or maybe his face would just further twist in that painful way, his soul filling to the brim with unsolvable problems that are not his own, yet somehow become his responsibility. "It's," he starts, deciding at the last to minute to deflect instead of give in, "it's just been hard for her. She doesn't sleep much now, with Mom gone."

Dean nods, a smarting stab of guilt clearly evident in his face, his posture. "Yeah, well," he mutters.

And John takes this opportunity to say something he's been itching to say for some time now. "You did the right thing, Dad." Then, as Dean turns sad eyes toward his son, "We don't blame you for it, any of it…Mom not being here…that's on her. Even Sammy knows that."

He nods again, solemn as before, but also a bit lighter, as though his son's words helped to lift some sort of cloud that had been following him for weeks, maybe months. He doesn't say _thank you_ or anything of the like. He doesn't say anything at all, just turns to leave, seemingly satisfied, possibly overwhelmed, certainly no longer thinking about his son talking to his dead cousin alone in his room. Which was exactly what John had intended.

* * *

He'd been sneaking in her room late at night for years, the practice starting way back when she was tiny and new, just old enough to make it through the night on her own so that the odds of running into his parents were slim. The reason was simple really, he wanted just one more _goodnight_, just one more kiss on the little fingers he could grab through the crib bars. He never thought one _I love you_ was enough, so he'd go in and tell her again, while she slept, so that it might seep more effectively into her subconscious.

Over the years, those visits dwindled. But then Maya died, and Samantha was scared – he knew even without her ever admitting it – and sad, and confused. So he stayed with her some nights, lulled her to sleep with his mere presence. And once she was able to go to bed alone, no longer requesting, requiring, him to be there, he started entering her room for a wholly different reason. He had to know she was still there, had to see, for himself, that she wasn't going to disappear like Maya had. Like his mother had. He had to see.

_See me._

She's awake when he enters, laying with her dark hair splayed out on the pillow, puffy worn eyes directed at the door as though she'd been waiting. "I'm sorry," he says softly, as he takes a seat on the edge of her bed.

She looks at him sternly. "Just don't do it again."

"Okay," he replies with a smile.



Then, after a quick kiss on the forehead, as he rises to leave, assuming all is well and fine, she calls out to him, "Where did you go?"

He looks at her, hard and assessing. "I went to find Maya," he says, surprised at how easily the truth slips out.

She seems to consider his confession carefully, mulling it over before asking simply, "Did you? Did you find her?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, I didn't."

Sammy sits up, propping herself against the mound of pillows. "Well, no offense Johnny, but what did you expect?"

He almost laughs, certainly smiles, even though what he really feels like doing is vomiting. Because she's a child, and even she knows. "I don't really know what I expected," he mutters in the dark, face bent towards the floor. "I just…wanted to see her."

Samantha sighs and throws back the covers, goes to one of the white pine bookshelves that holds all her favorite stories, best stuffed friends, and most treasured photos. It was a predilection borne from her mother, the desire to capture memories and fasten them inside silver frames for safe keeping. Little Sammy had more pictures of family and friends lining these shelves than the rest of the Winchesters had throughout their entire homes, combined.

She carefully picks up a frame that's hidden behind several others, fondly gazes at the photo inside for a moment before turning and handing it to her brother. He hesitates in accepting it and she almost shoves it into his hand. "It's not the same," she says, leaning into him, wrapping her arms around his middle, "but at least you can see her."

He returns the hug, all the while focused on the picture in his hand. It's from a few years back, a Fourth of July maybe, and it's just the two of them, just him and Maya, sitting at the picnic table in her backyard. He's smiling shyly. And she's looking right at him, crooked smile of her own, like she's about to burst into laughter. But she's looking _right at him_ in a way he never remembers her looking at anyone else.

"Where'd you find this?" he asks as she pulls away and crawls back into bed.

"Maya gave it to me, said she found it somewhere and thought I'd like it," she admits with an eerie heaviness to her voice. "But really, I mean it's _you_…you and her…so really you should have it anyway."

He smiles a thank you, more genuine than any words could be, and tells her to, "get some sleep, please," before heading out to the hall, being sure to leave his sister's door open just a crack. He almost makes it back to his room when his body pulls in on itself in a cold shudder and he drops the picture, hears the glass in the frame crack, and resists the urge to cry.

_See me_, he hears again as he bends down to collect the broken frame. _Look, John. See me._

He flips it over in his hands, still knelt down in the hall, runs his fingers over the webbed shatter of the glass, over his face, Maya's face. "I see you," he murmurs absently. "I see you," as the back of the busted frame slips off, falling to the ground.

_Look. Look, John._

He stifles a sob, ignores her pleas as he gathers everything up and continues to his room.

_Look._

The pieces of the frame are tossed onto the bed as he leans heavily against the door, shuts his eyes against the voice.

_Look._

"Stop it!" he shouts, not caring, not even thinking, about whether or not his father will hear in the next room, or his brother or sister just down the hall. "Leave me alone," he pleads, so near tears he's almost choking on them.

And she does. The voice stops, the steady repetition that had been like a cool breeze blowing through his mind disappears.

He collects himself as best he can, fully aware that the silence won't last forever. If it really is Maya, he knows she's too damn stubborn to give up. But even a moment of freedom is enough right now. He moves over to the bed stiffly and starts removing all the accumulated crap, clothes and books and such, tossing it on the floor so he can climb in under the covers and will the day away. And that's when he sees it, in her careful, controlled scrawl, a single word scribbled on the back of the picture of the two of them. He reads it aloud, but his own voice is drowned out by hers.

_Aamon. _

_You see, John? His name is Aamon. _


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Yeah, yeah, it's been forever...I'm trying though...honest.

* * *

He couldn't imagine growing up as his parents had, not having constant access to the web, being forced to wade through all sorts of unrelated bits and pieces of information before gleaning anything of any real importance. The early days of Google, before it was really Google at all. It must have taken forever to find out anything.

He had all the info he needed on Aamon inside of ten minutes. A prince of Hell, a demon. He knows the past, knows the future, and reveals them to those who make pacts with the devil. Which is just so…

"Wrong?" he hears, her voice clear as a bell behind him. He spins in his seat, so fast he nearly falls. "I never made any pact, John," she says, voice so familiar it brings tears to his eyes. She moves closer to him, face full and pale, body lean and real. "I would never do that."

She's wearing the dress they buried her in, cremated her in actually. Shimmering navy, silk flowing at her knees. He doesn't know what silk looks like when it burns, doesn't know exactly how the fibers may spark or melt, simmering away to ash. He doesn't even know if fabric becomes ash, or if turns to something else entirely. "I'm going crazy," he mutters simply, eyes blinking to clear the image of her smirk from his vision.

"Probably so," she intones. "But I'm not a symptom."

He looks at her, _really_ looks at her. She's pale with dark worry circles under her eyes. But who worries when they're dead? She's the same, he realizes, looks exactly the same as she did nearly a year ago, back when she was alive. She looks…alive.

"Maya," he whispers as he reaches out to touch her, sweep his fingers along her face. And he can't help but squeeze his eyes shut, let his body recoil, when he finds she isn't really there at all. "I can't touch you," he says, sorrowful question to his voice.

He's almost surprised to hear her answer, shocked that when he opens his eyes she's still there, still right in front of him, looking so…solid and real and touchable. "No," she says plainly.

"You're a ghost," he whispers again, hint of childlike confusion.

She nearly laughs, "No, John, I'm not a ghost."

"But –"

"Look, don't be so concerned with what I am, okay? That's not important."

"But –"

"John," she nearly shouts, so loud he finds himself scoping the room to see if anyone heard. "Look," she says, ever-impatient quality to her voice, "I don't really know how this works. You don't get to know everything just because you die."

He cringes at her words, knowing she's dead and hearing her state it being two totally independently depressing things. And what's most odd, is that she seems to notice, a somber note overtaking her face, a sudden sadness dulling her eyes. His grief over her loss has been overwhelming, for all of them it has been devastating, but, "You didn't want this." She gives him a typically-Maya, no-shit-Sherlock look, and sniffles back some tears. And he reaches out once more, on instinct really, to comfort her, pulling back suddenly just before meeting her face. "You are real," he says, almost to himself.

She turns away, never one to let others see her cry, and says simply, "I am. I think."

"Okay," he murmurs, clearly trying to make sense of things. "Okay, so…you're not a ghost." She shakes her head no. "And you're not…alive." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "What then?"

"Not what…why. Ask me why, Johnny," she nearly pleads.

He looks back to the computer screen, the image of a wolf-bird-snake demon staring back at him. "Why?" he asks, still staring at the screen.

"Someone made a deal," she replies carefully. "Someone wanted what I got."

"What?" he replies, twisting in his seat. "Okay, wait…demons are real?"

"John, I'm sitting in front of you communicating from beyond the grave, don't tell me you're a nonbeliever."

"It's kind of a lot to take in, My. I mean, yeah, you're here…only you're not. And he's real," he says, thumb indicating the computer, "except, being as he's a demon and all, also, not. And…"

"And, you knew this all along," she comments sharply. "Don't play dumb, okay? You've always known. You knew before I did. You know everything about us, John, all of us."

"What are you talking about?" He jumps up from his chair, frustration wrinkling his face and rimming his eyes. "I don't know anything," he nearly shouts.

Maya moves toward him, stands directly in front of him, so close that, if she had any breath in her, he'd feel it hot on his face. "I knew the past. I knew the future. You," she says, placing her palm on his chest, warm and soft, "know the now."

He looks down at her hand, astonished expression on his face. She moves, backs away, leaving the spot where she'd touched him cold and tingling. "It's in our blood, John," she says, barely a whisper, before fading away into nothing.

***

"So anyway," he says, mouth full of toast, "Mike's done with practice at five and Sammy's out at 5:30. Technically," he mutters, turning to face his son, "I'm being a good guy and giving you a choice. But you should know, I can't go back to that studio as long as that _woman_'s there. So if you choose to pick up Mikey, there's the chance that your sweet, innocent, adorable, little sister'll have to walk home in the cold dark."

John sits quietly, absently stirring his cornflakes into a milky mush, not even seeming to hear Dean behind him. He's been like this all morning, and Dean told himself he wouldn't push, wouldn't pester the kid about what was going on, about last night and so many nights prior. But this was getting ridiculous.

"Hey," he says, taking a seat across from his son, "you hear me?"

John looks up, almost startled to see that Dean's in the room at all, let alone right next to him. "What?" he asks softly.

Dean takes a breath and wipes his hands harshly over his face, readies himself for what's to come, whatever that may be. "What's going on, John?" he asks simply.

The spoon stills in his hand as John shifts in his chair, eyes averted like a guilty child's. "Nothing," he ekes out half-heartedly.

"John," Dean repeats, taking hold of his son's face and turning it towards him. "What is going on?"

And John's never been a particularly mysterious sort of person, never had a secret gone unshared or a story gone untold. Everyone who knew him described him using the same words: sweet, unassuming, kind, honest. A terrible liar with no penchant for story-telling. An eternally guilty kid with no reason to be shamed.

But lately, the last few months especially, he had changed, gone from sweet-natured to sullen, honest to secretive, unassuming to utterly withholding.

He looks his father in the eye, sees his concern, his need to know what's wrong, his desire to help. And he tells him, voice firm and unflinching, "Nothing is going on. Nothing."

***

He's thrown for a moment, walking into a house he knows is empty and hearing it filled with…is it AC/DC? "Dad?" he calls out, knowing full well that his father's working late today. "Are you here?" he asks, heading into the kitchen.

There, casually leaning back in a chair is his cousin. His dead cousin. "Nope, just me," she responds flippantly.

"Maya," he says, horribly confused, in part by her presence but also, "How did you…" He trails off, watching her lip synch to the music, bare feet flopping in time with the beat from their perch upon the table.

"Turn on the stereo?" she finishes for him, rising slowly, silk skimming her pale skin. He nods. "Apparently, I can mess with electrical stuff," she says, mischievously wiggling her fingers in his face. Her expression falters when he fails to offer a smile. "Watch."

John crinkles his brow, cocks his head curiously to the side as he watches the microwave spring to life on its own.

"Want some popcorn?" she tries. "I mean, you have to put it in, but still."

"Maya," he stops her with a stern look. "You can't do this."

She pouts, a sight so familiar that for a moment he forgets all about the months without it and sees it only as one of the consummate Maya expressions. But then he remembers, no, she's not really pouting, because she's not really here, because she's not…alive. He turns on his heel and heads to the living room, flips off the stereo, and stops cold, staring at nothing in the newly quiet house, feeling her presence behind him.

"You never could appreciate his music," she says snidely.

He closes his eyes and barely whispers, "Please don't do this."

"It's not like it's my fault, anyway."

He slowly turns around. "What do you mean?" he asks hesitantly.

"Well I couldn't exactly change the CD now could I," she replies. He shakes his head absently, a small smile unconsciously pricking the sides of his mouth. "Why do you guys even still have a CD player anyway?"

"Are you serious," he laughs, falling into a casual tone. "Dad still has cassette tapes in his room."

The two snigger in unison, "So sad," she sing-songs. "He's so _old_." But a sudden somberness overtakes her features then and the laughter stops.

John's smile falters as well, an odd feeling washing over him. There's a pit in his stomach and a knot in his chest that seem to signals a deep, aching yearning for the people he loves. Only he still has the people he loves, most of them anyway. He looks up and locks eyes with his cousin, sees that pain inside her dark brown orbs, realizes, suddenly, how hard it must be for her, to leave everyone behind. "You knew, didn't you?" he hears himself say.

She sighs dramatically, rolls her eyes as she looks away. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, turning and bounding up the stairs. She stops halfway and turns to look back at him, the same expression on her face, carriage to her body that he remembers from that night.

When she disappears at the top of the steps he feels a panic rise in him and he heads after her, taking two steps at a time. "Maya?" coming from him in a near-shriek.

But she's right there, sitting on the corner of his bed, when he reaches his doorway. "Did you think I was leaving?" she asks simply.

He lumbers in and takes a seat beside her, still somewhat startled by the fact that he can be so close to her and yet not feel her warmth or smell her scent. He's crazy, that much is clear. She's not really here. But…she is. And as much as he doesn't want to be insane, he simply can't be sorry to be with her again.

The television flips on suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts. "Okay," he says, jumping up and turning it off before staring down his cousin, "some rules."

"Excuse me?" she scoffs.

"I don't know why you're here, but I'm pretty sure it's not to listen to old music and watch TV. So, no _hanging out_."

"Pardon," drips from her lips in an incredulous tone.

"I'm just saying, if you're really here –"

"If?" she intones with raised eyebrows.

"Then," he goes on, "you should probably focus a little more on trying to figure out why."

Maya closes her eyes and shakes her head, says, without looking up, "That's not for me to figure out."

He looks confusedly at her for a moment before, "What's that supposed to mean?" comes out of him in a bit too aggressively.

But she doesn't respond, doesn't even look his way. Instead her gaze is fixed on the woman looming in the doorway.

John turns to see. "Mom," he starts, "what are you doing here?"

"I came for some things," she says simply, holding up a pair of shoes. "Who're you talking to?"

His head flips back to the bed where Maya still sits, seemingly invisible to his mother. She's still fixated on Ava, eyes boring through her. There's an odd, unreadable expression on her face that makes him more than just a little nervous. But he manages a, "No one," just the same.

"You were talking to yourself?" Ava tries, strange lilt to her voice. John knows that tone all too well. It's her you're-scaring-me-but-I'm-going-to-pretend-like-everything's-fine voice.

Part of him wants to tell her some convincing story about being on the phone or rehearsing a play, anything to keep her from worrying and make her see that everything really is fine. And part of him wants to tell her that he was talking to Maya and he sees her sitting on his bed right now and he's probably completely losing his mind but he's not all too upset about it really. In the end, though, what comes out is a simple and scathing, "You shouldn't be here."

She's obviously hurt, he can see it in her eyes, and he feels bad about that, he'd never want to hurt his mother. "This is still my house," she says carefully, staring him down. "This is still my family."

And once again, though he doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't intend to really, a hateful scoffing noise comes out of him. He pushes past. "I have to go," trailing behind him as he heads down the stairs and out the door.

By the time he makes it to the car he feels nothing but guilt, no more animosity, no anger towards Ava at all, and he almost goes back in to apologize. But then he remembers that she heard him talking to no one and she might try to press him for answers about that bizarre little conversation. And he actually does have to go to pick Sammy up from dance, so really maybe now's not the best time anyway.

"Ask me again," he hears suddenly, turning to see Maya in the passenger's seat.

He takes a breath. "You scared me."

"Ask me again," she repeats.

He shakes his head, frustrated and nearly fed up with all this…weirdness. "Ask you what?" he snaps.

"If I knew. If I knew what was going to happen."

His fingers stop just as they're about to turn the key in the ignition and he turns to her. "Did you know?"

She gives him a sad crooked smile and nods. "Yeah, I knew."


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Still with nothing.

Author's Note: I don't know how good, per se, this chapter is. But it's a chapter and it moves things along, at least a bit. So there.

* * *

The memories seemed to fade with each passing day. The longer she remained in this limbo, the more she wondered if she was even here at all, or if she ever had been. What are you without your memories, anyway? If you can't remember ever being, can you really _be_?

There were days she'd stay hidden in a corner, even from John, because, though she knew that she _should_ know him, knew that she _should_ know all the voices and faces and footsteps throughout the house, _should_ know even this very house, she simply didn't. John seemed to want to know why she was there, he was consumed with it, discovering what brought her back. Why was she not in Heaven, or in Hell? Why was she in this world where she clearly no longer belonged?

At first she would respond to his repetitive inquiries with a mere look, a cocky sort of smirk that said simply, you should know. Now, though, now even she didn't have a clue. Now when he asked her she simply shuddered and wondered if she ever did know.

Occasionally she would be reminded that she was actually dead, which was strange since the concept currently alluded her. And if she was dead, did that mean she had once been alive?

Yes, of course, the memories would sometimes flit back from the periphery and become clear once more. She had a mother with long dark hair and perpetually smiling eyes. She had a father with big, strong hands that held the gentlest touch. They would both be there, right in front of her, playing out their lives in the most familiar way on a sort of movie screen in her mind. And then they'd be gone. Their images would crumble and fade. Their touches would melt into her skin, dispersing to nothing. Their love that she had never even known she felt, fluttered away, leaving a phantom ache in its place. One minute she was someone's daughter, the next, she was nothing.

***

"Okay," he says, charging in to the room with a stack full of precariously balanced books. "Here's what I found."

He spreads the dusty old books across his bed, the smell floating off of them reminding her of a library. A library? Yes, the big one on the corner by their old school, where he'd tutored her, tried to get her to understand algebra and parallel structure and the 1st law of thermodynamics – and what was that again? It didn't matter. "John," she mutters softly, simply, a slow smile broadening her face. She knows him.

He flashes her an odd look, a mixture of _Are you okay?_ coupled with, _What, are you high?_ – and she laughs heartily.

"I know you," she says, laughter stilling, a tremor permeating her voice.

He looks away, pretending to be engrossed in the organization of the books and papers in front of him. He'd noticed, of course, that his cousin had not been herself lately. When the…haunting first began she had been so clearly, utterly Maya that he'd actually have to remind himself she wasn't really here, at least not in body, and that she'd soon be gone again. That's just how the world works. People die, they go away. It hurt him, naturally, to realize that while his greatest and perhaps most childishly naïve wish had come true – to see his best friend again, speak to her, hear her voice resound in his ears – it wouldn't last.

She was here for a reason, that much was obvious. And while he sometimes thought that the reason was simply that he wanted her so badly, or that she somehow knew that her family was struggling – and that was putting it lightly – without her, in his gut he knew it was something else. But he just couldn't bring himself to delve too deeply into what that something else might be. On the outside he seemed consumed with discovering her new raison d'etre, but on the inside he was shooting down every lead he stumbled across. If ever a certain idea began to head somewhere, he would quickly abandon it and pick up something else, lest, at solving the mystery of her presence, she might disappear once more.

He knew it was selfish, but he couldn't really bring himself to care.

Then she started to disappear regardless. Over the last several weeks there had been times he would rush home to after school, eager to spend time with his strange little secret, and she'd be gone. Hours later she might slink out of a corner, from behind a door, somewhere he'd surely checked earlier – but ghosts could be a tricky sort when it came to hiding – looking shell-shocked, nervous and scared. Her dark eyes would look up at him, empty and unrecognizing.

There were other times when she seemed fine, seemed herself. And they would talk about things – Clara Klein, still the biggest whore in school, The Grizzlies current losing streak and how it probably started because they could never find another forward as good as Maya – anything other than their respective families, that subject was a delicate one and yet to be properly broached. Sometimes she would stop short right in the middle of a conversation, go quiet and still, tremble for a brief moment, face being overtaken by that of a lost and frightened child, before retreating into thin air.

It was alarming, sure, unsettling to say the least. But then again, so was even seeing your dead cousin at all.

John had asked his father about ghosts once, long ago when he was too young to have known any better. And Dean, refusing to take the easy way out and lie like any other parent would, say there was no such thing, stop worrying about it, said only, "No ghost will ever hurt you."

But that wasn't what the contraband horror movie that Maya had made him watch had claimed. "They _can_ hurt you," he said softly. "I saw it."

Dean pulled his little boy up into his lap. "That was just a movie," he said lightly. "In real life," he struggled for a moment, again not wanting to lie, but also… "well, in real life, ghosts are just people. They're the souls of people who died."

"Bad people?" he asked meekly.

"Sometimes. Sometimes they're regular people." He knotted his brows and looked away, taking a good pause to figure out how exactly to phrase what he himself had learned not too terribly long before. "When someone dies," he starts, looking down at his young son, "they're supposed to…move on. But sometimes they don't." He turned John towards him so that their faces were only inches apart. "Imagine if you didn't get to move on, if you were left behind…in kindergarten, forever."

John's face wrinkled with consternation. "But I'm smart."

"You are smart, I know. But let's just say that for some reason, even though you _should_ move up to first grade, you can't."

"But why not?"

"I don't know. Maybe your teacher doesn't want to let you go, or your mom and I don't want you to grow up," he said, jostling his legs so that John let out a small giggle. "Or maybe you just really like it there and you're comfortable and you just don't want to leave."

"But I don't like it there, the kids are mean."

"I know, buddy. Just pretend. You really like it so you decide to stay. But then you get…stuck. And even though you want to go, after months or years, you can't." Dean let his eyes drift away briefly. "And then everybody you love leaves you behind. They move on and forget about you. And all those things that used to seem so fun and comfortable about where you were, well, they just aren't anymore. They get old and boring."

"You'd leave me behind?" John asked in a near sob.

Dean laughed, pulling his son close. "No, kiddo, we'd never leave you." He paused just long enough to let that sink and quell the boy's tears before softly muttering into his blond, baby-soft hair, "But imagine if we did. Imagine how sad and scared and angry you'd be. That's what happens to ghosts, to souls that don't belong here. They change and eventually they lose that person they used to be, can't even remember who they were. They just become…something else."

***

"I started smoking," she says one day, walking into his room as he's bent over his computer. He hadn't been able to concentrate on the paper before him, not when he hasn't seen her in two days.

John swivels in his seat to look at her, a bitter glare permeating his features. "What?" he asks glibly.

She saunters over to the bed, silk swishing at her knees. "Before," she starts simply, flopping onto his mattress without even making a dent. "Just before, I started smoking." She cocks her head in his direction, a curious look in her eyes. "Did you know that?"

He drops his guard a bit, so eager to stay angry with her for disappearing again, yet also more than ready to talk with her after days of silence. "Yeah," he says with raised brows. "You didn't know I knew, but I knew." She smiles bright and he has to look away to keep himself from mimicking her expression. "It was really stupid, My. I never got to tell you how stupid it was."

The room is silent for a moment before, "I'm sorry," slips softly from her lips.

"Well, at least you weren't doing crack or anything," he intones, trying suddenly to lighten the mood. When she doesn't raise her eyes to meet his he asks, brow furrowed, "Were you?"

She looks up. "What?"

"Doing crack?"

"Crack cocaine?" she asks, pulling her head back in disbelief.

"Is there another kind I don't know about?"

She shrugs. "Probably. You're not too in-the-know." He narrows his eyes at her and she laughs. "No, John, I didn't do any crack, or any other drugs. I didn't even…wait," she stops, suddenly confused. He's seen her do this before, of late, take in a deep breath and look back, sift through memories in search of something she _knew_ was supposed to be there. "Did I drink?" she asks, once realizing that if there were any memories of it, they weren't with her now.

"Did you drink?" he snarks, laughing to himself. "Once, you did."

"I don't remember."

She has that look again, that sad, lost, confused look that he just can't stand to see. "You went to a party with your boyfriend, Martin." The name rolls off his tongue with such disdain that she can't help but perk up and listen closer. "He dumped you there. I guess he thought you wouldn't make a scene because of the crowd and all. You would have thought that after four months together he'd have known you better than that."

"I made a scene," she says, though it comes out more as a question.

"You got pretty wasted, starting making out with some guy, I don't know who. Anyway, Charlotte called me – you remember Charlotte, we all had English Lit together." She doesn't seem to register the name, shaking her head slightly, timidly to say no. "Well, anyway, she called me and told me you needed a ride home. So I came and got you."

John sits at his desk, gaze falling to nothing as he replays the events of that night in his mind. And she watches, intrigued by the subtle, crooked smile spreading on his face, the laughter she knows is about to rise. "What?" she asks quickly. "What happened?"

He shakes his head, still lost in his own memory. "I can't believe you don't remember." He leans back in his chair. "I brought you home and you could barely walk, and I thought for sure we'd both get chewed out, which pissed me off. I mean I didn't even get invited to the party."

"You never got invited to parties," she interrupts.

"Yeah," he says simply, "thanks. Anyway, your dad was in his office and when he heard us coming in he started calling for you, probably because it was still pretty early and getting in early was –"

"Not like me," she finishes.

He nods. "So I help you in there and he's all freaked out and I'm trying to tell him what happened, but every time I do, you interrupt. I'd say party and you'd be like, _'It rocked!'_ Or I'd mention Martin's name and you'd scream, _'Asshole!'_" She giggles from the bed. "Sure, it's funny now. Then, I thought your dad's head was gonna explode."

"So he was mad?" she asks, a childlike lilt to her voice.

"He was…I don't know, worried I guess. Especially since he couldn't get a straight answer about anything. And then, when you started crying, we both kinda flipped."

"I don't cry," she said, more confused than affronted.

"Well, apparently you do when you're drunk." He stops short, the realization that, in fact, she _doesn't_ cry and for that matter _doesn't_ get drunk, not anymore, taking a moment for him to overcome.

"So I cried," she prompts, when he goes silent and still.

"Yeah. And then you puked all over your dad and his desk. It was really gross."

"So I was a weepy, pukey drunk," she says sardonically. "Figures."

John snorts out a laugh. "My dad said Uncle Sam could never handle his drink either. Nuts falling from trees, you know."

"Martin," she repeats, rolling the unfamiliar name on her tongue.

"You don't remember him?" he asks, already knowing the answer. She shakes her head _no_. He shrugs, "He was a jerk anyway."

"I don't remember," she says, voice small.

He smiles again. "Uncle Sam waited outside of his church, Martin's church, the next morning." Chuckling to himself, "I don't know what he said to him, but everybody at school said he pissed himself, Martin, that is, obviously."

She smiles across from him, but it never quite reaches her eyes.

"So," he says finally, changing the subject, "You're back."

She looks up at him, surprised. "Did I go somewhere?"

He turns away for a moment, back to the computer screen, then glances at the pile of books next to it. Most of them he got from the library, a few he'd found in the attic. They were all about demons. Hell. Fallen angels. They were all about that things that weren't real, or at least shouldn't be real. Like Maya.

"What do you remember," he starts slowly, unsure of exactly where he's going, unsure of whether or not he really wants to go there. "What do you remember about when you died?"

She looks at him curiously for a moment, not as though she doesn't understand, just like she doesn't want to respond aloud. "I remember driving into a wall."

"You did it on purpose," he says, a statement that she affirms with a slow and sure nod of her head. "Why?"

"Why are you asking me?"

He sighs. "Because I want to know."

"I didn't have a choice. I know that sounds like a copout, but it's true. You have to believe me, John," she pleads, avoiding his gaze. "I didn't have a choice."

"Why?" he asks simply.

"I don't…I don't really remember." She rises from the bed and begins to pace. "There's so much I just can't remember."

"Maya," he tries to soothe her, but her pacing becomes more frantic, blue silk flying around her legs.

"I was crying, I know I was crying. And I know that I knew I had to do it. He told me I had to."

"Who?"

She goes on as if he hadn't spoken. "I didn't want to. Things just kept…flashing in front of me. My mom and dad, and Rachel," she stops suddenly, stilling as her hand flies up to her mouth in shock. "_Rachel_."

John gets up and walks over to her, reaches out to touch her before he remembers that he can't, leaving his hand dangling in mid air just by her shoulder. "What about Rachel?" he asks cautiously.

She's staring off at nothing, but seems to see things none the less. "She died," comes out in a whisper. "There was so much blood, and…"

"This was a dream?" he asks, encouraging her to go on.

She turns to him. "I can't…I don't know. It must have been, but…it was real." She looks up at him, locks eyes. "I killed my sister," she says, eerily calm. "I killed her, and he said it was the only way out, the only way to not do it. And he wouldn't lie to me."

John takes a step back, notices how controlled his cousin suddenly appears, and asks, "Who wouldn't lie?"

She smiles softly, as though remembering a pleasant dream or seeing a long lost friend. "My dad."

***

She had told him, when her spirit first arrived, that it wasn't her place to figure out why she was there, why she had returned, why he was the only one who could see her. She told him this even though he already knew. He always knew what was really going on, whether he was willing to admit it or not.


End file.
